


Shackle

by veridian



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: Also lesbians, Do you think love can bloom even over metal allergies?, F/F, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-07-07 10:40:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 47,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15906627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veridian/pseuds/veridian
Summary: The bangle around Therion's wrist is bothersome for a lot of reasons, not the least of which is the fact that he's allergic to it. And far be it from Alfyn Greengrass to leave someone in a spot of trouble to their own devices.





	1. Accident

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **me:** au where everything is the same but therion is allergic to the metal in the bracelet so every time someone has to do something he throws a fit until alfyn makes him a salve for the itching  
>  **kiva:** Therion: this itches  
>  Heathcote: indeed, the weight of your failure irritates the soul and  
> Heathcote: wait no your wrist is flaking that's not good  
>  **me:** FUCK
> 
> and that's how this fic was born.

Their meeting is an accident. 

Therion's generally not a fan of those; they're too much trouble, too much effort to fix, especially when one is simply trying to pass through a town and leave. His sense of direction is good enough to know it's the opposite way of his destination, but "stocking up" in Bolderfall would've been...

He doesn't know exactly what it would've been, but he doesn't want to do it. Not with the outline of the Ravus manor looming in the horizon, its shadow over the town bringing with it a stab of shame in his gut. No, a quiet backwater village like Clearbrook is perfect for Therion to sweep through for a quick stack of leaves and some rudimentary supplies before he makes for Noblecourt. It's a fairly short walk, taking the better part of a day, but he arrives early enough that there are still people lingering outside for him to afford a room at the inn that night.

When he awakes, that's when the trouble begins.

He's heard of this sort of thing before - it's never happened to him, as he isn't the type to hold onto the things he steals if they're worth anything. But some others in the business, they keep things like jewelry. Armor. Weapons.

Some others in the business, they've got a peculiar sensitivity to the metal, and it's a common joke among the layfolk that it happens in retribution for theft. It's superstition of the most absurd degree, since just about any unlucky son of a bitch can have a reaction, stolen metal or no. Therion's never had one before. Then again, he's never worn any sort of jewelry before.

He frowns at the bangle on his wrist, picking at the inflamed flesh beneath it. There's no way to remove the damned thing, of course, and he doubts even this much would be enough for Heathcote to consider it. "Think of it as another incentive to hurry you on your way," he'd say, and he can _hear_ that stupid, stuck-up, dignified voice in his head as he imagines it.

He'd do the same thing, in Heathcote's position, so it's not like he's one to judge.

Therion groans. He likes to travel light, and a few extra vials of salve won't break his back or anything, but the trouble with stealing from apothecaries and the like is they don't always label their things. Fortunately, it seems there's not one but _two_ apothecaries in this town, so surely one of them will be willing to sell him something. And then once he knows what those damned bottles look like, he'll take the rest of them when they aren't looking.

Sometimes it takes a leaf to earn a leaf, but it's annoying.

Therion isn't quite looking where he's going as he heads in the direction indicated by a helpful villager - more helpful than he realizes, Therion thinks as he tucks the man's coinpurse into a pocket sewn into his mantle - and that's when he's nearly bowled over by another man, someone equally distracted from looking at where he's going.

An accident.

"Watch where you're going, you clumsy - "

"Shucks, I'm sorry!" Before he can finish his tirade, the other man's already extending a hand to help him up. "Don't know what I was thinkin', there...you alright?"

"I was better before you crashed into me," Therion snaps, pointedly refusing to take his hand and standing. He dusts off his mantle, frowning as the chain on the bangle jingles, drawing the attention of the man. "But I'll live."

"Hold on." The man gives him a scrutinizing look, eyes darting to the bangle. Therion sucks in a breath, ready to bolt if he makes to find any sort of authorities. Do shitty little villages like this even _have_ authorities? He supposes now's as good a time as any to find out.

He ends up having to wait longer than anticipated for the answer to that question, because instead of calling for anyone, the man reaches out and gently takes Therion's forearm, eyes narrowing slightly. It's then that Therion realizes he's not looking at the bangle at all, but the swollen skin underneath it. "Don't touch me," he growls, pulling his arm back, and the man holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender.

"I didn't mean any harm by it," he says, giving him an apologetic smile, then reaches into his satchel. "Don't think I got anything on me for that rash, though, and it doesn't look like you'll be able to take that off anytime soon, huh?" Therion silently glares at him in response, so he simply continues, "There's an emergency goin' on right now, but if you stick around I can whip something up for it. Shouldn't take more than two shakes."

"What kind of emergency?" He has no interest in staying here any longer than necessary, but if there's some kind of plague going on, he's leaving.

The man - an apothecary, Therion notes, he must be - rubs the back of his neck, looking frustrated. "There's a little girl who got bit. I need to find the snake that did it."

"And you're going by yourself?"

"Well, sure. Don't want anyone else getting attacked by the thing." He points at a house. "If you don't mind waitin', I'm sure Zeph'll let you have a seat while I make my way there and back. He's an apothecary too, but...it's his sister who's got the snakebite, so he's in no condition to make anything right now." He leans in for a conspiratory whisper. "Truth is, I kinda want someone there to look out for him, anyway - "

Therion rears his head back, already disgusted at the disrespect his personal space has been receiving this whole time. "Like I care. The quicker you get this snake, the quicker you'll be able to make that salve for me, right?"

The apothecary nods.

"Then I'm coming with you. I don't have a lot of time to waste, so..." Without another word, Therion starts heading in the same direction the apothecary had been.

"Wait. Wait! We gotta at least introduce ourselves! I'm Alfyn," the apothecary says, holding out his hand for a friendly shake. Therion looks him right in the eyes as he completely ignores the gesture, just to make sure Alfyn knows he saw it, not even bothering to break his stride.

"Therion," he replies, and leaves it at that. "Try to make this quick, why don't you."

Not as quickly as he'd like, the two of them find themselves back in town, and Alfyn rushes off to Zeph's house, vial of venom in his hand. Therion heads for the tavern to wait until the ordeal is over with, frustrated as he picks at the bangle again. It's so damn annoying, and the more he thinks about it, the more annoying it gets. He's practically digging his fingernails into the surface of the table to avoid scratching it when he spots someone approaching him from the corner of his field of vision, whipping his head around to meet their gaze.

Much to his surprise, it's Alfyn, who gives him a cheerful wave. "Heya! Couldn't find you outside."

"I thought you'd be sleeping by now," Therion mutters, reaching for his tankard of ale.

"I thought I would be too, believe me! But I'm still just so..." Alfyn wrings his hands. "Guess I was more nervous than I thought. But Nina's outta the woods, now, and it's a real relief to - "

"Do you have a point?"

Alfyn stammers for a moment, not used to being interrupted so abruptly, but continues largely unfazed. "Well, shucks, Therion, I wanna get another look at that problem of yours. You know what kind of metal the bangle's made of?"

"No clue, but does it really matter? It's not like I can take it off anyway." The bitterness in his tone is nearly enough to flavor the air as he begrudgingly holds his arm out again. "I did help you out, you know, so if you think about stiffing me - "

"I ain't gonna do anything of the sort," Alfyn says, humming thoughtfully as he gently shifts the bangle. "You talk to the people who put this on you? This is real bad."

"Something tells me they're not going to care. And they're right not to. What are they going to do, take it off and risk me running off before they can put on a different one?" Therion snorts into his tankard.

Alfyn gives him a sad smile. "Well, that's what they _should_ do." Therion turns to him, quite sure he can't be serious, but Alfyn's still examining his wrist, concern etched into his features. "If I can't take this thing off you, there's only so much I can do. It's gonna get worse, the longer this stays on...you sure you won't talk to - "

"We worked out a deal," Therion grinds out. "Once I...finish a job for them, they'll take it off."

Another quiet, thoughtful noise. "How long you think that's gonna take?"

"Hell if I know."

He finally lets go of Therion's hand, and the thief pulls his arm back like he's been burned, tucking it underneath his mantle. "Well, we got a bit of a dilemma here. I can't cure your rash here until these mystery clients of yours take off the bangle." He crosses his arms. "There's plenty of ways to stop the irritation, but like I said, that's about all I can do."

"So you're useless, then?" Therion asks dryly, putting his emptied tankard on the table.

"Now, just a minute. It's true that I can't cure you yet, but there's nothing useless about dealing with the symptoms." Alfyn motions to the barkeep. "So here's my proposal, Therion. There's not a doubt in my mind you're gonna need constant attention for that." Therion rolls his eyes as the barkeep places two tankards of ale on the table - one for Alfyn, and one for him, which he glares balefully at. He's not fond of the idea of owing anyone anything, even something as simple as the price of booze. "And I'm planning on leaving the village at daybreak. I wanna head for other places and help people out, the same way someone once helped me. If I come along with you, it's like killin' two birds with one stone, right?" He seems pleased with the suggestion, but Therion's already dire expression becomes even more severe.

"No thanks. I don't have time to drag a bunch of dead weight around - "

"But you got time to scratch up other people's furniture?" Alfyn asks, gesturing to Therion's unshackled hand, still digging into the table surface. "Your knuckles're gonna start bleeding any second if you don't let up." He sighs, and his arms fall to his sides. "I'm not gonna get in your way. If you need me to stay out of your business while you...finish whatever it is you started, that's fine, but I can't in good conscience leave you be. I can't even send you to another apothecary, not 'til this bangle's off of you. I might just be a beginner, but there's no one but quacks who'd claim they can cure you without taking the thing off."

"Great," Therion mutters darkly. "And the reason you can't just give me some salve for the road is...?"

"'Cuz I can't let a patient be until I know they're cured. It ain't right."

Therion groans, frustrated. "I don't care about what some hick apothecary thinks is _right_ or not." He pulls his arm out from under the mantle, staring at the mottled, swollen flesh underneath the bangle. He swears it looks worse than it did this morning. "But if that's the only way I'll get treatment, it's not like I can refuse."

Alfyn gives him a grin so bright he has to look away, grumbling under his breath. "Then we'll leave on the morrow! I gotta wait until everyone's awake to say my goodbyes to the village. You're free to stay with me for the night, Therion," he says, clapping the thief on the back like they're old friends. "I'll get started on that salve for you."

"Use cheap ingredients, got it?" Therion calls after him as he makes to leave. Alfyn throws his head back and laughs.

"Don't worry about it. You helped me save Nina's life - that's more than enough payment for any medicine you could ever need from me."

Therion watches him leave, then turns his gaze back to the fool's bangle on his wrist. What a mess.

He's generally never been a fan of those, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lordt i can feel my granblue fics fluttering in that thin, ephemeral space between complete and incomplete but these boys have completely ruined me


	2. Armor

Alfyn and Therion leave bright and early the next morning, the apothecary holding tightly to his satchel like he’s afraid it’ll dissolve into a pile of thread if he lets go, Therion rolling his eyes at every individual goodbye he gives to the villagers. People like Alfyn are exhausting, and he already regrets agreeing to that proposal of his.

But he can’t deny that the salve is working wonders for him. The skin underneath the bangle already looks a little better, and swelling aside it isn’t bothering him at all. Beginner or no, Alfyn’s got talent, and Therion’s not the kind of person to look this particular sort of gift horse in the mouth. Putting up with a loudmouth for a while seems downright charitable when he considers the alternative, especially since he doesn’t have any obligation to talk back when Alfyn goes off on one of his tangents.

For his part, Alfyn doesn’t seem to have noticed Therion coolly ignoring him at every turn, or maybe he just doesn’t care.

“So, Noblecourt, right?” Alfyn asks, looking over his shoulder at the thief. “It’s prob’ly easier to head back up through Bolderfall.”

“I know that,” Therion says, giving Alfyn a withering look. “I was only here looking for an apothecary, remember? I didn’t get lost.”

“Sure, I remember. Can’t help but wonder if that really is the _only_ thing you were lookin’ for, though - heard some of the villagers saying their pockets felt a little lighter.” Therion’s eyes narrow, and he waits for Alfyn to continue, but he doesn’t, just continuing to side-eye him. Eventually, the silence seems to become too much to bear, because after several long moments he finally adds, “Look, if you need the leaves, I can’t hardly judge you for it - ”

“Good, because now that there’s two of us I’ll need to take that into account too, especially if you plan on just giving all your tinctures there away for free.”

“I sure do!”

“Then don’t complain when I come up with the…let’s call it the necessary funding,” Therion says, already tired. “If you want to eat, you need me, because you’re too damn stupid to feed yourself.”

“I’ve never had a problem keepin’ myself fed, you know,” Alfyn grouses, but the way the conversation ends without another word is indication enough that he gets Therion’s point. It’s good enough for him.

And it remains good for about seven minutes, at which point Alfyn starts talking again.

“So, what’s Bolderfall like?” he asks, enthusiasm back in his voice as though it never left.

“You’ll see for yourself when we get there,” Therion replies. He sees Alfyn’s expression falter slightly out of the corner of his eye and sighs. “It’s a dusty little town with nothing in it. Don’t get too excited.”

“Is that where you live, then?”

“No.” That, Therion decides, isn’t worth elaborating on, and the way he sets his jaw is enough to tip off even someone as mercilessly talkative as Alfyn that nothing more is forthcoming.

“Oh, I gotcha. Can’t have some layabout knowing where you keep your treasures, right?”

“Something like that.” How is he supposed to tell someone like Alfyn, who’s spent his whole life in a cozy little village, about not ever having a home at all? There’s nothing to relate to. “I just…ended up spending more time in the Cliftlands than I’d planned, I guess.” That isn’t technically a lie, but he chooses not to elaborate on that, either.

“Shucks, I can’t even imagine it,” Alfyn says. “Wandering around like that…”

“Well, you’d better start.” Therion tugs absently at the bangle around his wrist. “It’s more fun to imagine it than it is to do it, after all, and this is your last chance before reality sets in.”

Alfyn shakes his head. “Anything’s fun with good company.”

Therion rolls his eyes. “Like I said.”

“Come off it, Therion. You’re plenty good company.”

He snorts. “We’ll see how fast you change your mind.”

But Alfyn doesn’t change his mind later that night, when Therion slacks off and watches him set up camp by himself. And he doesn’t change his mind the next day, when Therion only gives the minimal effort to clean up. If anything, he’s relieved he's even stuck around, and insists on taking a look at his wrist.

“Looks like you should apply it twice a day after all,” he mutters to himself. “Don’t wanna overdo it, else it might dry the skin out and make it worse.” He gingerly presses his fingers against the swollen skin, frowning. “Does that hurt?”

“Not really.”

“So it hurts a little,” Alfyn says, almost accusatory in his tone.

Therion shrugs. “It’s not anything I can’t handle.”

“Even so,” Alfyn begins as he pulls a jar out of his satchel, “there oughtta be somethin’ I can do about that. We’ll be passin’ through S’warkii, right? There’s gotta be some kind of herb I can use…”

“Don’t forget we’re not here to pick flowers, we’re here to get this bangle off of me,” Therion says, waving his free hand dismissively.

“ _You’re_ here to get the bangle off, you mean. Me, I _am_ here to pick flowers, if it means I can help you on the way.” He scoops some of the contents of the jar out with his fingertips, gently massaging it onto Therion’s wrist. “We’ll make do with what we got for now, but I know I can do better by you than this.”

Therion pulls his hand away, glowering at Alfyn. “I can use the damn stuff myself, thanks,” he says, voice overflowing with hostility. “You make it a habit out of putting your hands on patients?”

Alfyn just laughs, handing the pot over.

They arrive at Bolderfall at midday, and Therion wants nothing more than to pass right through, but of course the apothecary he’s traveling with wants to see the underside of every individual rock, like some damned tourist. “Just a quick look,” he promises, and he comes to the tavern five hours later with a sheepish expression and an excuse about sick kids in the lower half of the city. Knowing him, it’s not even a cover story.

At this point, it's easier to just go to the inn, and as merciful as a room by himself would be, he’s not about to leave Alfyn alone in a place like Bolderfall. The bartender seems to have stopped passing rumors on the Ravus’ behalf now that they’ve located their ideal flunky, but that hasn’t stopped a steady stream of thieves who haven’t heard that the manor is old news from coming in, and Alfyn is probably the easiest mark Therion has ever seen in his life, so others in the business are sure to think the same.

“You sure you’re okay sharing a room?” Alfyn asks as Therion hands the money over.

“It’s cheaper this way,” Therion coolly replies.

Despite being there for less than a day, Alfyn’s already got some well-wishers to see him off when they leave the next morning. All of them poor families with children. Therion crosses his arms and waits as Alfyn talks to every one of them, providing them with advice to keep their illness from reemerging.

He remembers when Darius got sick, and none of the apothecaries he went to would help a pair of obviously shady kids like the two of them, and he'd stayed up two days and nights caring for him, praying for the fever to break. Part of him wonders how things would have gone if someone like Alfyn had been around then.

Another part of him wonders, with a painful, twisting weight, if it would have been better for him if Darius had succumbed to his illness.

They depart in silence, the thief staring at the ground ahead of him, his mind a mess.

“Hey, Therion,” Alfyn says as they begin the trek toward the S’warkii woods, “was there anyone you wanted to say your goodbyes to?”

“I can think of two people I can’t _wait_ to never see again,” he mutters darkly, pulling the mantle up over his face to keep the dusty Cliftlands air out of his mouth. “But aside from them? No.” He tugs idly at the bangle on his wrist, but shrinks back when Alfyn holds out his hand in a silent offer to examine it.

The apothecary lets his hand fall to his side, giving Therion a look of concern. “C’mon. Is it bothering you?”

“Yeah,” he says curtly, keeping both his hands tucked away under his mantle.

It takes Alfyn a second to realize what Therion means, and he shakes his head. “You wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

For once, Alfyn doesn't push, though Therion sees the curiosity in his eyes. But he's not about to spill his guts about the most humiliating thing that's ever happened to him, especially not to a chatterbox like Alfyn.

“Well…” Alfyn rubs the back of his neck. “What are we lookin’ for, at least? I sorta got a knack for gettin’ people to talk to me, so I can ask around…”

“Doesn't matter. I'm doing this on my own, and I don't need your help. You're just here to make sure I don't need an amputation.” That _would_ get the bangle off, but losing a hand would be detrimental to his career to say the least. “Stop trying to get friendly.”

“Shucks,” Alfyn breathes, sounding genuinely hurt for the first time since Therion's started spitting barbs at him. “You're even more prickly than you look, ain't ya.”

“It's about time you figured that out,” Therion says, doubling down on his attitude now that he senses weakness. “Aren't apothecaries supposed to be smart?”

But maybe he's overdone it, because Alfyn is back to his cheerful self in a heartbeat. “The way I see it, if you can memorize the material and if you really care, anyone can be an apothecary.”

Therion snorts, rolling his eyes. “You couldn't be more wrong. You're the only apothecary I've ever met who cares at all.”

Alfyn seems taken aback, and he starts and stops a response several times. In the end, he gently pats Therion on the back - once, then a hesitant second time when Therion doesn't bristle at the contact. “Then I guess I'll just have to care a whole lot more to make up for ‘em, huh?” he says, a lopsided grin on his face.

Therion shakes his head. “Do whatever you want. Just don't be annoying about it.” Alfyn pats him on the back a third time, his grin softening to something a little more fond as his hand drops back down to his side.

“You're in good hands, Therion - I promise. As an apothecary, and as your friend.”

“You're not my friend.”

Alfyn just gives him a sigh, like he's told a terrible joke. “Not yet.” Therion shoots him a withering look, and Alfyn raises his hands in a gesture of surrender. “All right, all right. Let's see if we can hit the forest by nightfall.”

Later that night, under the canopy of trees they'd successfully made their way to, Therion stares up at the stars, unable to sleep. It's asking too much of him to be anyone's friend, let alone someone who's still little more than a stranger. And besides, after Darius's betrayal, not even the most charismatic and likeable of people have a chance at breaking Therion's perfectly crafted armor.

But a thought still lingers in the back of his mind, no matter how hard he tries to blot it out:

If only he had met someone like Alfyn ten years ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> therion is just a cactus gijinka


	3. Hunter

Her name is H'aanit, and she has the most miserably insufferable manner of speech in all of Orsterra.

Therion isn't sure where Alfyn even found her - they've only been in town for maybe twenty minutes - but here she is, a snow leopard at her side, uttering what would be nonsense even if she didn't sound like an archaic stage play.

“The beast groweth ever more dangerous the longer we tarryen. If we are to stoppen its onslaught, we must make haste.”

Therion slowly turns to Alfyn, awaiting an explanation. With the same sheepish expression as ever, the apothecary offers, “Well, y'see, she's on her way to hunt some monster, and I figured since I was already headin’ out to look for some herbs…” He must finally be feeling the effects of the stare Therion is trying to will into killing him, because he adds hastily, “But you don't gotta come with us! Just wait ‘til we get back. And don't forget to use the salve.”

H'aanit nods her approval. “A wise decision. This man looketh not like he hath the mettle to hunten a ghisarma.”

Therion is going to kill both of them. He's just decided.

“Thou art an apothecary, yes? Is this man your prentice?” She gestures to Therion, who somehow manages to find it in him to hate her and Alfyn more every passing second.

“No, he's - well, he's my patient, I guess, but we're probably gonna be the ones _needin’_ an apothecary if you - ”

“Truly? He looketh the kind more suited to being hunted than the hunter,” she says, pointedly eying the bangle. Therion tucks his arm under his mantle, glowering at her. “Still, thou art welcome if thou wishest to comen along. I cannot in good conscience taken an apothecary from his patient.”

“Oh, I'll be fine. Getting mauled by a bear is way worse than anything I'm suffering from now. Just bring him back in one piece.” He points at Alfyn with his other hand. “The fee for breaking my apothecary is pretty steep.”

Not much more than the fee for borrowing him in the first place, though. While H'aanit is gone, it means her house is empty, and Therion amuses himself by going through her things while he waits for them to return.

He isn't sure what he expected when he sees that roughly 70% of her possessions are weapons.

In the end, all he takes is a well-crafted hunting knife, one that he suspects would fetch a nice price from the discerning buyers at less than legal venues, then hangs out at the tavern for several hours, trading stories and information with hunters who have no idea how _valuable _their presence is to someone with sticky fingers.__

__This is getting old fast. He really has to figure out how to rein Alfyn in._ _

__“We returne victorious,” he hears from the entrance of the tavern, and a satisfied hunter and thoroughly frazzled apothecary take seats at his table._ _

__“Have fun playing with the monsters?” Therion asks Alfyn, who just heaves a huge sigh and orders a tankard of ale._ _

__“‘Twas a most thrilling hunt! Thy apothecary is quite skilled with an axe - ”_ _

__“H'aanit!” another hunter interrupts, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Prithee cometh hence. Word from Z’aanta approacheth!”_ _

__She stands without a word and takes her leave. Therion takes a few sips from the tankard of mead she ordered._ _

__She returns with another animal in tow, a haunted look in her eyes as she takes her seat again. She stares at the table forlornly, hands folded in her lap, and asks Alfyn a question without looking at him._ _

__“To whence dost thou intendest to travel?”_ _

__“Noblecourt,” Alfyn replies. “Why? What's the matter, H'aanit?”_ _

__“My master…he…” She shakes her head. “No. As his prentice, ’tis my responsibility to finden him.” She strokes the snout of the wolf that followed her inside. “And thou art on a mission thyself, art thou not?”_ _

__“Sure,” Alfyn says before Therion can say anything, “but you might as well come with us ’til we gotta split up, right?”_ _

__Therion slams his tankard on the table. “Not happening.”_ _

__H'aanit nods in agreement. “Thy friend is right. ’Tis a generous, noble offer, but I cannot imposen upon thee any further.” She drinks all her mead at once, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “If thou art staying the night, my house is open to the both of you.”_ _

__Alfyn shoots Therion a pleading look. “C'mon, Therion. Tell her she can come along.”_ _

__“Why the hell should I do that?”_ _

__“What if we get attacked by monsters or somethin’?”_ _

__That…is actually a good point, and Therion curses under his breath as he picks up his mug. Alfyn's no slouch with an axe, and he's not bad with a sword himself, but neither of them are accustomed to fighting monsters. Sure, they'd fought off the viper, and they've gotten into some skirmishes along the way, but what if something bigger or with a larger pack comes along? H’aanit, with all her experience as a hunter, would definitely be able to help._ _

__He sighs, puts his tankard down. “Where are you going?” he asks, still not quite believing he's considering this._ _

__“Stonegard. ’Tis the last known whereabouts of my master.”_ _

__“Then...I guess we'd split up at Atlasdam,” Therion says, rubbing his temple with his fingertips. “But we do things my way, okay? No running off to kill bears or…whatever you do in your spare time.”_ _

__“Bears again?” scoffs H'aanit. “Thou underestimatest me if that is the most fearsome creature in thy imagination.”_ _

__Alfyn goes slightly pale as he recalls the ghisarma._ _

__“Yeah, yeah, I get it, you're great. Do you want to come with us or not?”_ _

__H'aanit reaches for Therion's tankard and drinks from it, then puts it down in front of him. “Returnen the knife thou hast taken from me, and we shall be even. Only then wilt thou have the protection of my bow.”_ _

__He silently hands it over._ _

__“Very good. This knife was a gift from my master. If thou takest it again, I will not be satisfied with being even.”_ _

__Alfyn whistles, impressed. “That's the first time I've ever seen you get caught.”_ _

__Therion waves a hand dismissively. “You've probably missed more than half of my work anyway.”_ _

__“Shucks, more like all of it. You’re good at what you do, Therion.”_ _

__“Why is it thou travelest with a thief?” H'aanit asks, resting her elbows on the table. “I cannot imaginen it maketh you seem trustworthy.”_ _

__“Most people don't realize I'm a thief,” Therion growls. H'aanit silently gestures to her own wrist, and Therion stares bitterly at the floor. “That was a mistake, but once it's off - ”_ _

__“Ah. That is the mission thou spake of, Alfyn?”_ _

__Alfyn nods. “He's havin’ a pretty bad reaction to the bangle, so I'm here to help him until he can take it off.” This seems to remind him of something, and he turns to Therion. “Arm out, Therion. Let's see it.”_ _

__Therion gives a put-upon sigh and presents his wrist. Alfyn immediately frowns. “Shut up,” Therion says in advance, but the apothecary is already geared up for a lecture._ _

__“I told you not to scratch it!” Alfyn mutters something about having to reformulate his medicine, gingerly touching the welt on Therion's wrist. “What in the heck could've…how many times have you been usin’ the salve?”_ _

__Therion shrugs. “Three or four?”_ _

__“Didn't I say twice a day? No wonder it’s like this,” Alfyn chides. “If it’s still botherin’ you between uses, you need to tell me. I can't help you if I don't know what's wrong.”_ _

__Therion has the decency to look chastised, at least, as he pulls his arm back. “Well, it's still bothering me. It stings when I use it, too.”_ _

__“Sure, ’cause you scratched the skin raw. I'll make a balm to help that heal up, but don't make a habit outta this, got it?”_ _

__“Whatever.”_ _

__H'aanit, who has been watching this with an amused look on her face, chooses this moment to comment. “Thou art good friends. It gladdeneth me to see it.”_ _

__Therion glares at her. “Two things. First of all, we're not friends, and second, don't ever say ‘gladdeneth’ ever again.”_ _

__“Ah, would that gladdenen thee?”_ _

__Alfyn laughs. “I don't think Therion's ever been, uh, gladdenened in his life.”_ _

__H'aanit snorts, covering a snicker with her hand, and Therion crosses his arms to sulk. He should just leave right now and go to Noblecourt alone. He has the salve Alfyn gave him, so it's not like he needs to keep him around anymore._ _

__But despite himself, he stays right where he is, putting up with Alfyn’s relentless optimism and H’aanit’s dry wit, reminding himself he hates it every few minutes, until the wee hours of the morning._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the h'aanit chapter 3 banter with therion watered my crops i'm so glad someone is here to give this prickly boy the absolute shit he deserves


	4. Fever

As if dealing with the reaction to the bangle on his wrist weren’t bad enough, the more time Therion spends in the Frostlands, the more certain he becomes that he’s coming down with something. The three of them had all had the sense to bundle up during their trek, and with H’aanit at the head of the line they’ve had little trouble navigating the largely identical fields of snow. They’re making short work of an otherwise irritating leg of their journey, and Therion has little to complain about, so of course something like this has to muck it up.

By the time they arrive in Flamesgrace, Therion’s sure he’s got a fever, but he’s been good at keeping it to himself so far. Sure, there’s an apothecary by his side _constantly,_ to the point that it’s starting to feel strange when there isn't someone looming just over his shoulder, but he’s always been quick to get over bouts of illness. This is nothing to worry about.

He tells himself that even as the world spins around him and his legs feel like lead as he follows H’aanit up the stairs to their rooms at the inn. He barely makes it to his room, and unfortunately doesn’t quite manage to reach his bed before he collapses, hitting the floor with a loud _thud._ H’aanit slams the door open, hand hoisted over her shoulder to draw an arrow, and sighs, putting her hands on her hips. “’Tis not like thee to trippen,” she says, but when she doesn’t receive a pithy response from Therion, she crouches next to him to get a look at him, and her eyes widen in shock. “Gods, Therion. Thy face is more vibrant than an apple.” She scoops him up with an insulting amount of ease and carries him to bed, tucking him in with an equally insulting amount of care. “Why didst thou sayest nothing, when thy condition is so dire? Thou art a fool.”

“Shut up,” he rasps as eloquently as he can manage.

“Thou deservest this much criticism. If thou hadst spake earlier, your illness would have been cureth forthwith.” The harsh glimmer in her eyes softens, and she smoothes out the blanket. “I hath been curious about thy lack of spite recently. Now I see I was right to worry.”

She says something else after, maybe about going to get Alfyn, but Therion is doing everything he can to tune her out - it’s surprisingly easy when he can feel the blood pounding in his head. He nearly jumps out of bed when Alfyn’s hand fills his field of vision so the apothecary can take his temperature; he hadn’t even realized H’aanit had left, let alone that Alfyn had come in. Being startled by someone is a new and uncomfortable experience for Therion, who’s always so meticulous about keeping an eye on everyone in the general vicinity.

“Therion,” Alfyn says grimly, but opts not to add anything else when he sees the utter panic in his eyes. The hand on his forehead falls away, and Therion hears the vague, fuzzy sounds of Alfyn and H'aanit's voices. He grunts in protest as another blanket is put on him, but his body is too weak to do anything about it. Strong, lean arms hoist him up so he's sitting, and he smells blood, iron, and wet leaves. It must be H'aanit, and moving him like this probably means…

He makes another displeased noise as Alfyn presses a bottle to his lips, just as he'd expected, but a hearty shake from H'aanit - accompanied by an alarmed admonishment from Alfyn - gets him to drink it. The huntress strips off his mantle, lays him back down, and straightens out the blankets over him. He still can’t understand either of them very well, but the thoughtful tone of H'aanit's voice and the cut of his shirt almost certainly mean she's seen the scars rippling across his chest.

He'll be mad about it later. He's too tired to do anything other than lay in bed right now.

When he wakes up, the room smells overwhelmingly of grass, and Alfyn is asleep at the bedside table, slumped over it, head resting on folded arms. Bundles of herbs and bottles of tinctures litter both the table and the floor around it.

Therion is feeling leagues better already, but his traitorous legs still feel too weak to support his own weight, and just the idea of speaking sets his throat on fire. He feels sick, but not because of the illness. After all, these symptoms…

He's snapped out of his reverie by the door opening. H'aanit steps inside, carefully balancing two plates of food. “Alfyn,” she begins, but when she notices Therion is awake, she offers the plate meant for the apothecary to him instead. “Here. Eatest all that thou can. How long hast thou been awake?”

Therion shakes his head. “I just woke up. What's he doing here?” he asks, tilting his head in Alfyn's direction.

H'aanit seems concerned. “This must be what Alfyn meant when he spake of hallucinations and confusion. He is an apothecary, Therion. ’Tis his job to tenden to the sick.”

“I know _that,_ you idiot, I'm asking what he's doing in my room. What if he gets sick too?”

“Alfyn hath the sense to tellen the two of us if his health faileth, so even if he doth catchen thy illness, it will not be as serious a case as thine.” She puts her own plate of food down, and Linde snuffles curiously at it. When she picks up her fork, it's Therion's plate she reaches for, carefully picking up a slice of tomato and offering it to him. “If thou wilst not feed thyself, I am to feeden thee.”

“I can do it myself!” Therion yells, rapidly becoming more embarrassed with each passing second. “Get out of here!”

“And what wilt thou do if I staye? Hmm?” She hands him the fork. “Thou art not strong enough to beateth me even when thy health is good. There is nothing thou canst do to chasen me out.”

The lively banter between the two of them is enough to rouse Alfyn from his slumber. He lifts his head, rubs his eyes - and when he realizes Therion's awake, practically trips over himself to rush to his side. “Therion! How're you feeling?” His hand is on Therion's forehead before he can respond, and worry clouds his features. “You still have a fever…damn, it should've broken overnight…”

“’Tis not thy fault,” says H'aanit between bites of egg. “That he is able to speaken at all today sayeth leagues about thine skill. The crimson shroud is no easy illness to conquer.”

Therion feels that nausea settle into his stomach again. He knew it. It's the same illness Darius had, the one Therion had spent so much of his time doing what little he could to treat it.

If Darius had never shoved him off that cliff, would this be when he chose to abandon him? It would be so easy, he thinks bitterly, to call in some quack selling snake oil and let nature take its course, and then Therion would be none the wiser, sure even in his death throes that Darius had done all he could -

Alfyn holds a bottle out to him, and Therion has to hold his nose. Most of his tinctures are vaguely floral, but this one smells awful, and he shakes his head.

H'aanit makes an amused noise and covers Therion's hand with her own. “Thou art a remarkable fool sometimes, Therion. Art thou so frazzled to not realizen that this is exactly how to get uncooperative children to taketh their bitter medicine?”

“Shut - ” Alfyn mercilessly tips the bottle forward as soon as Therion's mouth is open, and the bitterness is enough, he thinks, to wake even the dead. But his throat starts to feel better almost as soon as he's swallowed the vile stuff, and he begrudgingly mutters what sounds suspiciously like “thanks” as he shoves H'aanit's hand away.

The huntress stands and motions to Linde, who purrs as she stands. “We shall returne with thy breakfast, Alfyn. Tellen Therion he needeth to eat his own, as well.”

“You need me to feed you - ”

“I would rather die.”

“Fair enough, as long as you eat it.” Alfyn leans back in his chair, eyes never once leaving Therion. “I'm so glad you made it through the night,” he says, voice nearly ready to crumble from the weight of his relief. “I can't believe you didn't say anything…” He makes a frustrated noise, body language tense and guarded. It's unlike him. “And I can't believe I didn't notice…damn it all…”

Therion's eyes widen in panic. If he could, he would run away and never come back. He doesn't know how to deal with people as it is, so having to deal with someone on the verge of tears is a new and miserable prospect. “You're a beginner and I've been hiding things for more than a decade. It's just...you know. A matter of experience. So stop feeling sorry for yourself.”

It's a clumsy, harsh attempt, but it seems to work. Alfyn perks up a little, giving Therion a small smile. “Maybe you're right. But still…” He wrings his hands. “An illness like this is really serious, Therion. It’d’ve killed you if H’aanit hadn’t gotten me when she did, y’know.”

Therion shrugs carefully, eating his breakfast in tiny bites. “I didn’t think it was serious.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Alfyn says, exasperated. “Ain’t no way someone catches the crimson shroud an’ doesn’t feel like they’re on death’s door. Why didn’t you say anything?”

Another shrug. Alfyn sighs, slumping against the back of his chair, and they’re both silent until H’aanit returns, carrying another plate.

“The atmosphere in this room is oppressive as that of a wild beast,” she murmurs, handing it to Alfyn. “What hath happened?”

“Nothing,” Therion and Alfyn say in unison. H’aanit raises her eyebrows, but doesn’t respond.

“Look,” Alfyn continues, shoving an egg around on his plate. “I don’t know what happened t’you, Therion. I don’t…know how all those scars happened, or why you’re more prickly than a Sunlands cactus. And I don’t wanna know, if you don’t want me knowin’. But…but I care about you, alright? Me an’ H’aanit both, we don’t wanna see you sufferin’ like this again.”

H’aanit nods, and even Linde puts her paws up on Therion’s bedside.

Therion eats the rest of his breakfast in silence, and H’aanit takes the plate as soon as he’s done, leaving to bring it down to the innkeeper. As the door softly closes behind her, Therion leans back against the pillow and stares at the ceiling. “When I was a kid,” he begins, throat threatening to close up, not because of illness but because he already wants to end this story. “When I was a kid,” he tries again, “there was someone I know who got this disease. And he didn’t need an apothecary.” He wheezes out a laugh, immediately regretting the way it sets his lungs afire. “Which worked out great, because none of them wanted anything to do with us.”

Alfyn shakes his head in disbelief. “No, he did need an apothecary. The people who turned you away were worse than scum, an’ the two of you were damn lucky he didn’t die.”

“I wonder about that,” the thief responds, closing his eyes, and Alfyn doesn’t respond. There are a million questions that Therion can feel hanging in the air between them, but ultimately he asks none of them, instead opting for a quick clap on the shoulder and some medical advice.

“You’re gonna have to take another dose of medicine when you wake up, okay? You ain’t outta the woods just yet. I know you have that mission of yours to take care of, but we ain’t leavin’ ‘til you’re feelin’ better. Right now, I bet even I could catch you red-handed if you tried to go for my pockets.”

“Nope.” Therion wheezes again, pulling his arm out from under the blankets, a small bottle dangling between his fingers.

Alfyn grouses under his breath as he takes the bottle back, putting it in his satchel. “You’re impossible, Therion.” But there’s fondness in his voice, laughter even, as he straightens out the blankets. “But now I got faith you’ll definitely beat this. Just hang in there, okay?”

Therion nods. He’s not letting something like this kill him, not when _Darius_ of all people survived it with no professional help.

He sinks down into the bed as Alfyn leaves, suddenly exhausted.

This is the worst and the best he’s ever felt in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: this is a shipping fic  
> me @ me: yeah but what if everyone else adopted therion anyway  
> me: ,
> 
> also h'aanit and therion being friends makes me happy. it's fine


	5. Kindling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kindling, or, "therion feels his own feelings for 0.4 seconds"

They stay in Flamesgrace for the better part of a week, Alfyn steadfastly refusing to leave until Therion is completely cured (as though it’s his own money he’s spending for inn fees, Therion notes bitterly). During that time, H’aanit becomes acquainted with a cleric named Ophilia Clement, whose divine purpose is to perform a ritual called the Kindling, and their group expands by another person.

This all happens without Therion’s consent, as he spends most of that time either asleep or wishing he were asleep, so he’s less than thrilled about it when Alfyn breaks the news to him, two full days after Ophilia’s been told she can travel with them.

“This isn’t some entourage,” Therion huffs as he presents his arm for Alfyn to examine. “It’s bad enough I have to drag you and H’aanit along everywhere to begin with, now I have to deal with a…what is she, a nun?”

“Yeah, a sister of the Flame.” Alfyn is gentle as ever as he applies the salve to Therion’s wrist; he hasn’t been able to do it himself the past few days, and though he’s perfectly capable of doing it again now, something in the back of his head that he’s a little scared of examining further keeps telling him that it’s fine to let the apothecary do it. His hands are strong and rough from holding tools and gripping an axe, and it always feels a bit like he could snap Therion’s arm in two like a twig.

But he never does, and there’s some strange sort of comfort in that.

“Where is she headed?” he asks, trying and failing to keep the exasperation out of his voice.

“Saintsbridge, I think,” Alfyn replies, moving his hand to take Therion’s temperature.

“That’s in the opposite damn direction! Why the hell is she - ?!”

“Seems to me,” Alfyn says, the relief on his face obvious as he pulls his hand back, “that she’ll be headin’ off with H’aanit when we split up in Atlasdam.”

“Huh?”

He’d forgotten H’aanit was going to leave. He’s not sure what’s worse: the pang of dismay that courses through him as he remembers, or the fact that he’s so obvious about it that even Alfyn notices it, concern flashing in his eyes.

“We’re headed for Noblecourt, remember? But H’aanit’s master was last seen in Stonegard. So we’ll be splittin’ up there, you and me headed north. That’s…” He falters, then tries again. “I mean, you’re the one who decided that.”

“I know! I just…whatever.” He’s already started listing the things he doesn’t like about H’aanit in his head, to convince himself that maybe her leaving isn’t so bad after all. All she does is give him hell, anyway. He’ll be better off once she’s gone.

He pulls his mantle up over his mouth, just in case Alfyn mistakes the look on his face for anything other than anticipation.

“Here he is!” Alfyn announces as the two of them walk down the stairs. H’aanit and a blonde woman - Ophilia, Therion assumes - look up. H’aanit nods, and Ophilia gives a little wave. “We’ve all been eatin’ on this guy’s salary, so be sure to say thanks before we head out!”

“How _much_ have you been eating?” Therion asks, tone suddenly accusatory. H’aanit and Alfyn both look away. “Give me a number!”

“It’s fine, ain’t it? Not like you’re hurtin’ for money, what with your talents and all.”

“That’s not the point,” he grumbles, crossing his arms as he takes a seat next to Ophilia. The chain rattles against the fool’s bangle, drawing her attention. She swallows hard, shifts in her seat a little, and turns to H’aanit.

“Um,” she says, “you’re…from the Darkwood, so perhaps you don’t know, but…”

“I knowe what he is,” H’aanit says. “But I spake true when I said my companions are good men. Even if they were not, Alfyn is an apothecary, and Therion his patient, so I cannot aske separation of them.” She looks at Ophilia out of the corner of her eye. “Art thou still willing to travelen with me, knowing I hath befriended a thief…and knowing that Alfyn and I both dependeth upon him for money?”

“Uh, she hasn’t befriended me,” Therion interjects. Alfyn kicks him in the shin under the table.

Ophilia’s nervous gaze flickers from H’aanit to Therion and back, but then she nods. “Very well. If you say he’s a good man...then, despite his profession, I will believe it. It’s very nice to meet you, Therion,” she says, giving him a shy smile.

“Whatever,” he mutters into his mantle. “You’ll be able to forget about me soon enough.”

H’aanit raises her eyebrows, obviously picking up that something is amiss, and gives Therion a look that he’s come to understand means “we’ll talk later.”

Therion ignores it, motioning for the innkeeper to tally up their expenses and bracing himself for the worst. He grimaces when he sees the number written on the piece of paper he’s given, but all things considered, it could have been worse. H’aanit and Alfyn both have healthy appetites, but with Therion barely having eaten anything the past few days, despite his best efforts, it’s more or less balanced out the food cost. And Alfyn spent so much time caring for Therion in his room that they were only charged for two rooms most nights.

Their tab paid in full and Therion in more or less working condition, the four of them set out, H’aanit again taking the lead.

“Therion,” she says, pulling him by the mantle up to the front of the group with her. “What is troubling thee?”

He glances over his shoulder at Ophilia and Alfyn, who are both blatantly eavesdropping. “Let’s talk about this some other time, okay?”

“Nay. I feare that if we waite too long, we shall have already arriveth at Atlasdam. And then it will be too late.”

That dismay is back, and stronger than ever. “Well,” he begins, and never finishes.

“Well, what?” H’aanit prompts him after several long moments of waiting.

“I can’t just run around Orsterra doing other people’s errands. And you can’t just run around Noblecourt sticking arrows in guys to get a rock back when you have a master to save.” Therion hopes his voice is coming off as detached as he’s trying to make it. “So…”

“So thou art troubled by my inevitable separation from you and Alfyn,” she says matter-of-factly.

“What? That’s not what I said.”

“Nay. But ‘tis what thou meant.” She gives him a sidelong glance. “Or mayhap I am mistaken, and thou art simply so lost in thy visions of freedom that thou art distracted.”

“Yeah,” he huffs, knowing she doesn't believe it for a second.

“Mm.”

The awkward silence that settles between them is broken by Ophilia, who has at least the decency to pretend she hasn't heard anything, even though she definitely did, and was listening the whole time. “So,” she says, clapping gloved hands together, “shall we introduce ourselves further? I've only spoken at length with H'aanit, and I would love to get to know the two of you better as well. Alfyn, Therion.” Her words are laced with such sincerity that it makes Therion almost believe them. “I shall begin with myself, of course. I was raised by His Excellency, the head bishop of the church in Flamesgrace, after my family perished in the war.” Her eyes seem a little distant as she continues, “There…seemed to be no one I could trust, for a time. But one day…one day, Lianna, my dear, sweet sister, taught me that I was never alone, so long as I had her. No matter how I had tried to avoid her, or even tried to dissuade her from speaking to me…” She laughs, a pure and melodic sound. “It may be forward of me to say, but I do see something of myself in you, Therion.”

He hunches his shoulders and fixes her with a glare. “Yeah, it is forward of you.” H'aanit smacks his arm, but he pays it no mind.

What does this little slip of a girl know, anyway?

Ophilia is obviously put out by his reaction, and her hands twist nervously around the handle of her lantern. Alfyn pats her on the shoulder. “He's in a mood,” he offers, and H'aanit sighs in agreement. “It ain't anything you did. So, lemme tell ya about Clearbrook - ”

The longer Alfyn goes on about his idyllic childhood, the more Ophilia chimes in with stories about her sister and H'aanit with exasperated sighs over her master, the less Therion listens. What is he supposed to say? What is he supposed to do? He can't connect with any of these people, and that makes it even more ridiculous that he still, _still_ wants to come up with some way to delay H'aanit’s departure, because he doesn't want to go back to life without a snow leopard silently judging him every time he steals a snack out of Alfyn's bag and a quiet huntress gently leading the conversation away from him when Alfyn gets too friendly.

“Hey.” Speak of the devil. “You okay there, Therion?”

“Of course. I could finally hear myself think for a second.”

H'aanit makes a move to smack his arm again, but Alfyn shakes his head, and she lowers her hand. “Well, alright. Let me know if you need me to take a look at that arm of yours again. Is it healin’ alright?”

Therion glances down at his wrist. “I guess so.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Not really.”

Alfyn sighs. “So it hurts a little.”

Therion feels like they've had this conversation before. He shrugs.

“It's not anything I can't handle.”


	6. Scholar

Therion stares at the Royal Academy looming in the distance and frowns deeply. Noblecourt is practically next door. He should be less agonized about being here.

But H'aanit and Ophilia have the map unfurled between them, and the huntress has her finger right over Stonegard. The women talk in low whispers, and for once Therion finds he doesn't want to be a fly on this particular wall.

Alfyn falls into step at his usual place by Therion's side as the thief heads for the library. “How you holdin’ up?” he asks, gently nudging his shoulder.

“I'm not upset,” Therion says flatly.

“I never said you were. You're still recovering from a major illness, y'know.” Alfyn gives him an easy smile even as he finds himself in the crosshairs of one of Therion's most irritated glares yet. “Listen. If we wrap this up right quick, we can meet up with the girls in Saintsbridge, right? We’ll be headed back to Bolderfall anyway, and it's only a stone's throw away once you turn in that thing you're lookin’ for.”

Therion grunts as apathetically as he can manage.

“Thought you'd say that,” Alfyn says, chuckling to himself. “You've been in a right mood since Flamesgrace. You sure you're feelin' better? I’m not lettin’ you get away with hiding it again.” He leans in to get a good look at Therion's face, laughing as the thief brings his hand up to hold him at a distance. “Worth a shot.”

“Was it?” Therion asks, shoving Alfyn lightly.

He could almost be described as having fun when a man walks into the library behind them, gesturing theatrically at the librarian. “Mercedes, my dear!”

Therion casually tilts his head just enough to catch some of the details of the conversation that happens between the two of them. The man - Cyrus, he calls himself, Professor Albright, the librarian says - is going on an extended sabbatical, though he seems less than thrilled about it. Just the same old gossip. But he's a professor, after all, and a professor might be acquainted with certain researchers the next town over.

He hoists himself up onto his feet, careful to keep the bangle out of sight, and approaches the man from behind.

“Excuse me,” he says, resisting the urge to run back over to Alfyn and shank him between the ribs when he hears the apothecary biting back a snicker at his conversational tone, “did you say your name was Cyrus? Cyrus Albright?”

“In the flesh!” the man responds, chest puffing proudly - though that bravado dissipates rapidly. “If you’re a prospective student, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait to enroll in my classes, however - something has come up, and I must attend to it, so I am on a sabbatical until further notice. If I may have your name, I may be able to find someone else willing to take you on as a student, Mr…?”

“You don’t need to do that,” Therion says, ignoring the man fishing for his name. “Actually, since you’re such a big name at the academy, I was wondering if you knew anything about someone I’m looking for. I’m interested in his research, you see…his name is Orlick.”

Cyrus puts a hand to his temple, racking his brain. “The name isn’t familiar to me, no…what exactly is it that he researches?”

Therion gestures vaguely. “Magical relics. Ancient artifacts.” He might know fuck and all about the dragonstones, but he knows they fall into those categories. “If it helps, I’ve heard he lives in Noblecourt.”

Cyrus furrows his brow. “I’m sorry, dear boy, but if he ever attended this academy, it must have been prior to my time as an instructor. But you’ve piqued my interest in this Orlick fellow, I must admit…I’m currently looking for something myself, but would you mind if I joined you on the jaunt to Noblecourt?”

Therion scrambles to catch up with the hard left turn the conversation just made, and before he can properly respond, he hears the familiar thump of Alfyn’s boots behind him. “H’aanit and Ophilia wanna talk to you before they leave,” he says, putting a hand on Therion’s shoulder.

“Ah, I see I’ve interrupted something. No matter. I do hope you find the answers you’re looking for.” Cyrus bows in farewell as Alfyn ushers Therion out of the library, where the huntress and the cleric are waiting.

“’Tis time we must departen,” H’aanit says. Therion can feel her eyes on him even as he looks at the ground. “I thanke thee for thy companionship, Therion. Our time as travelers together was short, but I shall always looke upon it fondly. Even if thy true feelings aren murkier than the Darkwood itself.”

Therion makes a noncommittal noise.

“As expected. Well,” she says, clapping him on the shoulder, “when we meeten once more in Saintsbridge, be sure to tellen me about how it feeleth to winen thy freedom.” She laughs quietly when he looks up at her, baffled. “’Twas Alfyn who gave me the idea. Ah, but…” She reaches for her hip and pulls out a knife. “Here. This knife…thou rememberest, yes?”

It's the one he stole, back in the Darkwood. He nods.

“Praye keepen this safe for me.” She takes his hand - the one with the fool's bangle clamped tightly around it - and presses the handle into his palm. “’Tis one of my most beloved possessions. This is what is called ‘collateral’, is it not? If thou never seest me again, then thou may keepest the knife. But if we finde each other in Saintsbridge...praye given it back to me.”

Therion tries to shove the knife right back into her hand, but there's no way he can overpower someone like H'aanit, who only has to tense her muscles slightly to keep his hand firmly clasped around the handle of the dagger. “What makes you so sure I'm not just gonna sell it as soon as your back is turned?” he asks bitterly.

H'aanit chuckles. “Thou workest in the dark. And so, thou wouldst never announce thine plans so openly. Now I am certain it is safe with you, Therion.”

His mouth works uselessly as he struggles to come up with a retort. This isn’t fair - this is a burden he has to carry for her while she's gone. This is _extortion._ Just as he finally comes up with an argument, Ophilia clears her throat, and H'aanit moves to say her goodbyes to Alfyn.

“It was such a pleasure to meet the two of you. Thank you for helping me kindle the sacred fires. If there’s ever anything I can do for you, please…just ask it of me.” She smiles at Alfyn and Therion in turn.

Therion squirms a little, not used to being thanked for anything. “It’s not like we actually helped you out with that.”

“You let me accompany you. It’s always safer in groups than alone, isn’t it? Just by doing that, you’ve done me such a great service.” She tucks her hair behind her ear, and just like always, the sincerity in her voice is overwhelming. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’d like to see you again after kindling the first flame, as well. Perhaps you could join me again when I depart for the second one…?” She sounds hopeful, like a little girl asking someone on a playdate. Therion shrugs.

“I have three things to get, so I can’t make any promises.”

Ophilia hesitates, biting her bottom lip. “I…oh dear, I don’t know if I should wish you good luck, considering how you intend to obtain those items, but…not even a criminal deserves something like that.” She gestures to his wrist - more specifically, the rash that’s been flaring up underneath the bangle again. “And you're doing it on behalf of the rightful owner, are you not? What I will say, then, is that I hope you're able to remove it soon.”

That's the same thing as wishing him good luck, but Therion thinks better of saying it.

H'aanit raises a hand in farewell, and Therion and Alfyn watch the women go, the apothecary waving heartily until their outlines vanish behind the city walls.

“And just like that, they're gone,” Therion mutters. The knife feels like it weighs a ton in his hands.

“I think H'aanit ain't the type to draw out goodbyes, that's all. She's got her master to worry about, too.”

Therion turns to go back into the library, and there's Cyrus again, on his way out. They make it three steps past each other in opposite directions before Therion swivels on his heels, calling out to Cyrus. “Hey, Professor,” he says. “Do you still want to come to Noblecourt with us?”

“If the offer is truly open, I won't refuse,” he replies. “You're sure you don't mind?”

Therion shakes his head. “Truth is, we're pretty hard up, so if you could chip in for rooms at the inn…”

Alfyn, confused about Therion's motives until this exact moment, jabs him in the side, but Therion ignores it with a poker face forged through years and years of dishonesty.

“Ah, say no more. I am always happy to help those scholastically-inclined.” Cyrus gives Therion an annoyingly disarming smile. “And I am ready to depart whenever you are.”

They leave that evening, Alfyn taking the lead.

“How long are you gonna keep this up, Therion?” he asks, pulling the thief toward him by the mantle - a habit he seems to have picked up from H'aanit. “I'm gonna have to treat your problem sooner or later, and he's gonna see the bangle.”

“Keep what up?” Therion asks, grinning up at him. “I never said anything about myself. It's not my fault he leapt to conclusions.”

“Therion!” Alfyn sounds downright scandalized. “Okay, sure, that's true, but…” But he obviously isn't happy about it. Eventually, he gives up and just sighs, putting an arm around Therion's shoulder. “Every time I think I've seen you at your slyest, you prove me wrong.”

“Don't touch me,” Therion replies automatically, slipping out from under Alfyn's arm.

“I'm gonna have to touch you if I give you your medicine tonight.”

“Heavens. Are you ill, Therion?” Cyrus asks.

“No, just having a…little bit of difficulty with a piece of jewelry.”

Cyrus nods in understanding. “A metal sensitivity, is it? Still, by removing the offending article, it should resolve itself fairly quickly…hardly worth consulting an apothecary over.”

Therion raises his arm, showing off the fool’s bangle. “Gee,” he drawls sarcastically, “I never thought of that.”

Cyrus pauses, and his brows knit together in thought. “I'm being robbed,” he says, stark realization in his voice.

“What? No. I’m not a highwayman,” Therion says in disgust. “If I were the one robbing you, I'd be gone and you wouldn't have realized it yet.”

“Bold words.”

Alfyn chooses this moment to rejoin the conversation. “It's true, though. This guy pulls all sorts of things from who knows where, and I've never once seen him steal 'em. And I've been tryin’!”

Therion reaches into his mantle and hands Cyrus a quill. The professor goes completely, perfectly still. “This is mine.”

“It sure is,” Therion replies. “I stole it outside the library.”

“If your talents are so plentiful - which, to be perfectly honest, I must admit they are...why even ask me to help you pay for your lodgings?”

“Because I'm sick of spending money,” Therion says as though it's the most obvious thing in the world. “And because I need someone like you. You scholar types only ever trust each other, and I wasn't lying when I said I was looking for a researcher named Orlick, so you're helping me find him. What other choice do you have, this far out of town?”

Alfyn raises a hand. “Therion, I know we already established you ain’t, but you're startin’ to sound an awful lot like a highwayman.”

“Please.” Therion rolls his eyes. “I have more finesse than that. I don't work like - ”

 _Like Darius does,_ his mind unhelpfully finishes for him even as his jaw stops working.

Alfyn pauses, waiting for him to finish, but Therion immediately shuts down, pulling his mantle up over his mouth, and the atmosphere chills. Curdles, even, as though just thinking the name has poisoned the air.

Cyrus continues to follow them as Therion overtakes Alfyn as leader of the line, shooting the apothecary a concerned look while the thief is otherwise occupied. All Alfyn can do in response is shrug.

They settle down to make camp hours later at Alfyn's insistence - without H'aanit, they don't have anyone accustomed to navigating the wilderness at night. Therion makes only the bare minimum effort to communicate with his companions as they work together to clear out a decent place to sleep.

When it's time to apply the ointment to his wrist, however, Therion seems to have regained his composure, sitting next to Alfyn and sticking his arm out like always. “Let's hurry this up.”

Alfyn sighs in relief as he reaches into his satchel. “Glad to see you're feelin’ better.”

He doesn't ask about what happened, even though it's obvious that he wants to. Everything from the way his fingers fidget as he does what he can to shift the bangle to the quick glances at Therion's face give him away. Therion has a plethora of ways to tell someone to shut up in his arsenal, but he doesn't have to use a single one. After a few moments of treatment, Alfyn lets go of his arm and gives him a smile. “That'll do ‘er.”

Therion isn't sure how to react, having been so ready to tell him off that now he's left with nothing to do but sit there, dumbfounded.

“You okay there, Therion?” Alfyn asks, putting a hand to his forehead. “Not feeling feverish again, are you?”

Therion slowly shakes his head, shoving his hand away.

“Good. Y'know, I think I finally got a handle on this,” he says, holding up what has to be the third or fourth version of the salve for Therion's rash. “Couldn't’ve done it without that stop in S'warkii. Y'know, forests really are a treasure trove for apothecaries.”

He starts off on a rambling tangent about flowers and Therion isn't listening. At some point, he realizes Cyrus has joined the conversation and they're having a grand time exchanging weird facts about plants. It feels almost familiar, and he wonders if, to Alfyn, it's like H'aanit and Ophilia never left. He's already treating Cyrus like a dear old friend - he'd even been treating Therion like one, back when they first met weeks ago.

How does he do that?

Cyrus laughs heartily at something Alfyn says, and Therion scrunches himself further into his mantle, hoping maybe he'll disappear entirely. Better to do it now than later, when Alfyn no longer has a moral obligation to his patient to stick around and he's convinced even Therion that they're friends.

Because that's what's going to happen, if this keeps going the way it is. Eventually that slight drawl in his voice will become just as endearing as Darius’ rhyming slang once was, and the smiles he gives him will feel like they have any meaning at all to them, and then it will be too late. Therion's learned nothing, even after a betrayal that still hurts every time he thinks of it.

He shakes his head, suddenly defiant. That will only happen if he allows it. It doesn't matter, none of it does - not the casual conversations, the familiarity of Alfyn at his back, the fact that Alfyn is the only person who's ever put their hands on him with the intent to _help_ him.

He can't let any of those things fool him, because he'd once thought all of them about Darius, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you may have surmised this based on how she and ophilia were discussing the direction their journey would take them, but h'aanit was the game protag all along. she Will Return, but the fic is at its core about alfyn and therion, so here they are.
> 
> and also cyrus, because every pair of hormonal young adults needs a chaperone, and i'm tired of looking at my notes for h'aanit's speech patterns.


	7. Dragonstone

As soon as the gates to Noblecourt become visible, Therion motions for Cyrus and Alfyn, who cluster together with him in an approximation of a huddle. “All right. We're looking for Orlick. If things go as planned, you two can have the night off - get some drinks, hire a whore, whatever, and we'll be able to leave tomorrow morning.”

“Therion,” wheezes Alfyn, face flushing bright red, “you can't just say stuff like that.”

“If this Orlick fellow is willing, I would dearly love to look over his research,” Cyrus adds, apparently ignoring the crude remarks spilling from Therion's lips. “And to ask if he's seen a particular artifact that _I_ happen to be looking for, as well. Can we not delay our stay a bit longer?”

“I dunno, do you wanna be the one who pays for my amputation?”

“Stayin’ here ain't gonna mean you need an amputation, and even if it did, I wouldn't charge you to do it! What kinda sick person asks for money after loppin’ your limb off?” Alfyn seems horrified at the prospect.

“Generally, I believe it's the care that happens after that they pay for,” Cyrus muses, “but I've never spoken to an apothecary about it.”

“Yeah, Alfyn. Imagine that, getting paid for your work and chipping in to help with travel expenses instead of getting a free ride halfway across Orsterra.” Therion doesn't even have to look at him to know Alfyn is only beaming pridefully at his words, despite their barbs.

“Hey, look, it ain't free. I've been givin’ you that salve, right?” He indicates his own wrist, an unspoken request to see Therion's. The thief obliges, holding out his arm. “Shucks, look at that! It's lookin’ a little better every day. Might leave a scar where you scratched it, though…”

“That's fine. I'm used to it,” Therion says, shrugging as he watches a flicker of concern work its way into Alfyn's eyes.

“If I can help it, I'm gonna make sure you don't add any more to that collection of yours.” Alfyn lets go of his arm, his expression utterly serious. “Bein’ hurt ain't something anyone should be used to.”

Therion averts his eyes, staring at the ground. It really isn’t fair when he says things like that. “It's not like one more will make a difference, anyway.”

“Yes, it will,” Alfyn says, voice firm, and Therion loses what little will he had to argue in the first place.

“I do hate to interrupt,” Cyrus interjects, leaving Therion time to thank the gods he didn't have to come up with a reply, “but shall we book our rooms at the inn?”

“Oh, yeah. Shit, this place is so nice…I bet it's expensive,” Therion mutters as he takes the lead. “We really should wrap this up before it takes too long.”

“What d'you do with all that money, anyway?” Alfyn asks, as though the thought has just occurred to him. “You always have more than enough for what we need, and you have places to stash stuff you can't carry, right? Safehouses and whatnot.” He crosses his arms. “So I don't really get why you're so worried about stuff like this.”

“Spoken like someone who's never needed money and not had it,” Therion scoffs darkly, and Alfyn winces, realizing too late that he's tread on ground he shouldn't have.

“Sorry, Therion,” he says, bowing his head a little in apology. “I didn't…you're right.”

Therion hums in a manner that acknowledges his apology, but doesn't accept it.

Cyrus tries his level best to keep the atmosphere from crumbling into nothing as the three of them head for the inn with a lecture on the history of the city, which has been rife with intrigue in the past decade or so. Apparently, with the collapse of House Azelhart, Noblecourt has gradually collected a number of nasty characters and nastier rumors.

It's good information, really. Knowing there are boundaries to keep in mind means he can't unwittingly overstep them. Not that it matters overly much when all he's here for is a researcher, but Noblecourt is still packed to the gills with, well, nobles, and what kind of thief would Therion be if he didn’t take advantage of the situation while he had the opportunity?

After securing lodgings for the night, it's time for Therion to work his magic. The tavern, as always, is a great place to loosen lips and dredge up secrets, and it's not long before he has a name to look for.

But that’s where the roadblock is.

“I can't believe this,” Therion mutters as he leaves Barham's research lab a second time. The furious expression on his face stops both Cyrus and Alfyn from asking how things are going. “How many things does he expect me to get for him? I'm not his servant.”

Alfyn gently pats his shoulder. “Cyrus and I couldn't find any other way in, so just put up with it for now. Worst comes to worst, I'll whip up a sleeping draught for those guards.”

“Like they'd drink anything from a stranger,” Therion says, rolling his eyes. “Guards are paid to be suspicious.”

At that, Alfyn's expression turns uncharacteristically sly. “That's fine. There's more than one way to put someone to sleep.”

In that moment Therion, for the first time, is a little bit afraid of Alfyn. The moment passes quickly enough, though, and then he's all smiles and “shucks” as usual. It's a good reminder that apothecaries are often just as knowledgeable about poisons as they are about cures…and that Alfyn isn't an exception to that.

“What're you lookin’ for this time?”

“A wyvern scale. Should be easy enough to lift off one of these merchants,” Therion says, gesturing at a man in a feathered hat. “I bet if H'aanit were here she'd have already hunted one and brought back a handful.”

Alfyn laughs. “Yeah, you're probably right.”

Therion can feel him watching as he approaches the merchant, still apparently determined to catch him in the act of stealing. He wants to tell him off, but this close to the mark he’d definitely draw attention by yelling for the apothecary to look somewhere else, so he just rolls his eyes and hopes for the best as he rifles through the merchant’s wares.

When he gets back, Cyrus has returned from his own attempt to get Barham to talk. Judging by the disgruntled look on his face, it didn't go well. “To put it mildly,” he says, “I am to leave town if the guards catch wind of me…harassing someone again,” he says to Alfyn as Therion approaches the two of them.

“Shucks,” Alfyn says, “what'd you say to him?”

“I expressed interest in his research, and in Orlick's, at which point he became most incensed and demanded my departure.” Cyrus rubs the bridge of his nose. “Whatever happened between the two of them, it was quite a spectacular falling out.”

Therion shrugs. “I'm not here for some sob story about a breakup, so forgive me if I just run this along to Barham,” he says, holding the scale carefully in his palm, tilting his hand away from the merchant.

“How d'you _do_ that?” Alfyn marvels. “I had my eyes on you the whole time and I didn't see it.”

“Yeah, about that? Don't watch me. One person staring means other people will too, and if enough of them are, I might really get caught.”

Alfyn gasps. “Shucks, you’re right. I'm messin’ up all over today.”

Therion shrugs. “As long as it doesn't happen again, it's fine.”

Unfortunately, needing one more item means it happens again, and Therion steals an apple from Alfyn's satchel as penance on his way to Barham’s house for what he hopes is the last time. Listening to Barham talk about his past with Orlick - his former partner - puts Therion right back into the mood he’d finally started moving out of, something Alfyn and Cyrus notice immediately, if the way neither of them greet him when he gets back is any indication.

“I’m going,” Therion says. “Alone,” he adds when he sees Alfyn pull the strap of his satchel a little higher over his shoulder.

“Be safe,” Alfyn responds, posture slackening and worry weighing down his voice.

Therion thinks about those words as he walks past the guards and into the manse, as he fights off Orlick's bodyguards, as he slips the dragonstone into his mantle.

Darius had told him all the time to be quiet, be stealthy, be careful. At the time Therion had been glad to hear it, sure that he meant all those words for his sake. But now he knows better - being quiet, being stealthy, being careful, all of that was for his own convenience. Not once did he ever tell Therion to be safe.

Not once did he ever tell Therion to be anything that wasn't useful to him.

There are so many things he can point out now, in retrospect, so many lessons that shouldn't have taken falling into a ravine and watching vultures circle his broken body to learn. To an outsider it must have been obvious.

But Darius had always told him not to trust them, and even if he hadn't, Therion would never have trusted them anyway.

He's so lost in his thoughts that he doesn't realize he's automatically returned to the tavern until Alfyn's arm is around his shoulders and he's calling for a round of ale. “You've still got two more to go, right?” 

“Yeah, but I need to turn this one in first. They only gave me the location of one at a time,” Therion says, shoving Alfyn’s arm off of him just as roughly as usual.

Cyrus steeples his fingers. “Would it not have been more efficient to give you all the locations at once?”

“No, this is how I would have done it too. See, if I knew where all three of them were, what'd stop me from stealing them all and skipping town with them? Sure, there's the bangle to think about, but what's a fool's bangle when I've got three priceless treasures and an ear on the ground for the black market?” Therion empties his tankard. “This way, even if I run off with the first one, they know where the other two are.”

Cyrus shakes his head. “Still, ‘tis a petty assumption they make of you.”

“They're right,” Therion says, shrugging. “I'm pretty sure the guy who put me up to this used to be a thief himself, because he knows how to squeeze every ounce of dignity out of one.”

Alfyn leans in, voice low. “So can you show us what you got?”

Therion reaches into his mantle and produces the ruby dragonstone, drawing awed little sounds from Alfyn and Cyrus both. “It's beautiful,” the scholar murmurs. “Certainly worth the effort.”

“Yeah, well, I'm not keeping it,” Therion says, slipping it back out of sight. “Two more of these things and I can buy my freedom back.” It wasn’t even that difficult, bodyguards aside. Tedious, yes, but if the other two go as smoothly as this one, he’ll be saying goodbye to the bangle in no time at all.

Needless to say, he isn’t expecting it to go that way, knowing his luck.

“I’m really glad for you, Therion,” Alfyn says, grinning broadly, and the thief turns away, huffing. “And you came back with barely a scratch on you! If that ain’t worth drinkin’ to, I don’t know what is.”

“We were supposed to leave tonight,” Therion says testily, “and you’re not going to be able to walk a straight line if you keep this up.”

“In the event we end up needing one more day, I shall pay for tonight’s lodgings,” Cyrus says. “I understand your desire to leave, but a little healthy celebration is good for the soul.”

Therion knows that, but he swallows his bitter retort. The grip of a larger man’s hand on his shoulder, shaking him excitedly, the leftover adrenaline from a successful heist, the smell and taste of cheap booze...it’s all too familiar. But Cyrus and Alfyn seem determined to make this happen - doubtless with good intentions, he at least understands that much about them - so he reluctantly stays right in his seat, and three tankards into the evening, Alfyn’s arm settling around his shoulders again isn’t quite so unwelcome anymore.

“You find anything out about what it is you’re lookin’ for, Cyrus?” Alfyn asks.

Cyrus sighs. “No. But I do have an acquaintance I can ask assistance of in Quarrycrest. It’s quite close to Bolderfall, so I was hoping you would allow me to continue traveling with you.”

“You’re better off finding someone else,” Therion mutters into his ale. “I doubt any acquaintances of yours would approve of you spending all your time with a thief and some uncultured…” He gestures to Alfyn. “Whatever this guy is.”

“I’m an apothecary,” Alfyn manages between breathless laughter. “Don’t tell me you’re so deep in your cups that you forgot the word for it.”

“Fine, I won’t.”

“I’ve already been removed from my position. I doubt very much Odette would pay much mind to the company I keep, given the circumstances.”

“I thought you were here on sabbatical?” Therion immediately leans forward, brows furrowing in suspicion.

“Indeed I am, though not by choice. This ‘sabbatical’ was the result of certain unsavory rumors swirling around the academy…put forth by one of my own students, at that.” Cyrus crosses his arms and sighs again. “She was so beset by jealousy that she started a vicious rumor that I was somehow inappropriate with the princess, all because I was more attentive to her in class…I was a fool to not have seen it, really.” He shakes his head. “Yes, Therese was always just as passionate in her studies as - ”

“Her _studies,_ ” Therion repeats.

“Indeed! She’s quite a bright girl, that Therese.”

Alfyn and Therion exchange glances, both having come to the same conclusion about where Therese’s real passions lie. “I don’t doubt it. Too bad her teacher’s got lead for a brain,” Therion says. “I’ll have another drink for her, too, gods know she needs it.”

Cyrus gives the two of them a perplexed look as the thief and the apothecary both spend the next few minutes giggling into their mugs.

“Therion,” Alfyn finally groans at least two drinks later, “think we’d best head to bed. If I drink any more I’m not gonna be able to whip up a hangover cure in the mornin’…”

Therion’s head is pounding so hard he’s not sure he can rule out being sick again, so he just sort of nods and tries to stand. “Tries” is the operative word here, because he quickly has to take his seat again when the room spins around him. “Gimme a minute,” he mutters. “Just…just lemme…”

Alfyn laughs. “Here, hold on, I gotcha.” He hoists Therion up and drapes his arm over his own shoulders, arm coming around to hold his waist. “That’ll do ‘er. Careful, now…”

Cyrus watches silently as the two of them make it up the steps, an amused grin on his face, and then he gets up and follows them. “I’ll be here for when one of you inevitably falls,” he says, and Therion shoots him what he hopes is a venomous glare over his shoulder. 

“Eyes up front, Therion, or you’re gonna trip,” Alfyn says encouragingly, practically carrying the smaller man up the stairs. “I gotta be honest, I didn’t even think you could get this drunk.”

“Cyrus said…”

“Don’t blame me for your own excess,” Cyrus says, though there’s no edge to his voice at all.

The professor follows them to their room, hovering over Alfyn’s shoulder just in case he needs any help in getting Therion to bed even as he dresses down to sleep. The thief is largely cooperative as Alfyn removes his mantle, pulling it up over his head and folding it neatly at the foot of Therion’s bed. “All right, hold on. I’m a little worried about you, so let me just…” He props up the pillows, leaving Therion vaguely sitting upright when he crawls under the blanket. “That way if you get sick you won’t choke.”

“People can _choke?_ ” Therion asks, horrified at the thought. “On their own - ”

Alfyn gives him a small smile, brushing the hair out of his eyes, and for a moment, Therion’s breath catches in his throat. It’s been so long since anyone looked at him like that, like they were genuinely concerned about him. “You’ll be fine, I know it. But holler if you need somethin’, okay?”

“Please don’t,” Cyrus groans from his own bed. “Remember we’re all sleeping in this room tonight. Besides, aren’t you quite inebriated yourself, Alfyn?”

Alfyn laughs sheepishly. “Sure, but even drunk I can whip up somethin’ as easy as an elixir for an upset stomach. Need anything before bed, Therion?”

Therion shakes his head, though he immediately regrets doing so when the room tilts at an angle in response.

“All right. G’night. You too, Professor.”

“I do hope that hangover cure of yours works, else the morning is going to be miserable for all of us,” Cyrus mutters as he turns onto his side. “Pleasant dreams to the both of you.”

In the end, Therion doesn’t manage a pleasant dream. But he doesn’t have a nightmare, either, and that’s good enough for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pray for therese


	8. Routine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> partly inspired by my own recent hangover a few weeks ago. cheers friends

There are a lot of things Therion regrets in life. The entire past decade, for instance. But right now, if given the choice between being thrown off another cliff and having to deal with this hangover for another ten seconds, he’d leap into Darius’s arms himself and tell the big lug to get it over with.

“Alfyyyyynnnnnnnnnnn,” he groans, barely able to pick his head up off the table. How did he even get out of bed? He’s not sure. What he is sure about is he’s put his mantle on backwards, but he’s determined not to open his eyes and let the sunlight burn them again until he’s feeling a little better.

“Hold yer horses, it’s almost done,” the apothecary says, giving him a sympathetic shoulder pat. “Did you at least _try_ to eat the food I gave you?”

Therion groans again, this time in disgust; just the thought of eating is enough to make him want to vomit. “I hate this,” he says, muttering into the varnished wood. “I’ll never drink again.”

“I said that the first time I got a hangover too,” Alfyn says, laughing as he puts a small bottle in front of Therion’s face. “Didn’t stick.”

Therion immediately grabs the bottle and downs it. “This is disgusting!” he coughs.

“More or less disgusting than that headache of yours?” Alfyn asks, grinning over at him as he slides another bottle across the table to Cyrus. “Fix that cloak of yours while you’re at it.”

“How can you be so damn chipper at this hour…”

“I ain’t any more chipper now than I am any other time of day.” Alfyn downs a third bottle himself, though it seems like he needs it the least - despite, Therion is reasonably sure, having had the most to drink last night. “Besides, we gotta get goin’ today, right? That dragonstone ain’t gonna return itself, and the two of you…well, let’s just say we need at least one person to be up and at ‘em until everyone else comes around.”

He’s right, and Therion hates him for it.

“I’ve gathered my things, so I shall be downstairs.” Cyrus stands, pushing the now-empty bottle back over to Alfyn. “Thank you. I feel better already.”

“If you get something to drink while you wait, make sure it’s water!” Alfyn calls after him. The scholar raises a hand in acknowledgement, while Therion winces at the apothecary’s volume.

And then it's just the two of them, Therion watching Alfyn carefully pack his satchel. “You treat that thing like it's made of glass,” he says.

Alfyn stops and looks over his shoulder at him, blinking in surprise. “Yeah…yeah, I guess I do. It's a gift from a friend.”

“That Zeph guy?”

“Hey, you remembered his name!” Alfyn beams at him. “Known each other since we were kids, we have. We're both apothecaries in training! He gave me his satchel and I gave him mine when I left Clearbrook with you.”

Therion listens quietly while he finally adjusts his mantle.

“Me and Zeph, we've always been like family. Even before Ma died, I was always stayin’ over at his house…remember that girl you helped me save, Nina? She's Zeph's sister, so she's like mine, too.” Alfyn has a gentle, nostalgic smile on his face - something Therion has seen plenty of times from plenty of people, so many times it doesn’t sting anymore to know he still doesn’t have any reason to make that same expression. “Do you…” Alfyn begins to ask a question, but then realizes that Therion's taciturn countenance is all the answer he needs.

“No,” he answers softly anyway, and he sees Alfyn's brows knit together in sadness.

“I can't even imagine life without Zeph,” Alfyn says, voice unimaginably small for someone of such huge stature. “How did you do it?”

Therion shifts in his seat. “It's not like I've always…there was someone I worked with for a while. But we weren’t friends. All we were was…” But there's no word for this, is there? There's no neat, tidy word describing the relationship between someone being used and the someone using them, leading them along with just enough camaraderie to keep them complacent. “We weren’t anything, in the end, I guess,” he says.

“You had a falling out?”

“Something like that.”

Alfyn sighs. “No wonder you’ve been so gloomy, havin’ to deal with Orlick and Barham’s baggage. More gloomy than usual, I mean. I was so happy when you ended up staying with me and Cyrus last night, y’know…I worry about you. So it was good to see you…loosening up a little.” He waves his hands. “It ain’t comin’ out right, but thanks, Therion.”

“For what?” Therion finally hauls himself to his feet, marveling at how quickly Alfyn’s hangover cure seems to work. His head still hurts a bit, but he doesn’t feel like he has to throw up when he stands anymore, so that’s a marked improvement.

“This is the first time you ever told me something about yourself. I’ve thought of us as friends from the day we met, and I guess it’s…just nice to think maybe you’re startin’ to think of us as friends too.”

Therion fixes him with an utterly unreadable stare - if only because he’s not entirely sure what he should be feeling - and then without another word, he grabs his scarf off the back of his chair, loops it around his neck, and heads for the door. Alfyn laughs as he grabs his satchel and follows him downstairs, where Cyrus is waiting.

“Ah. There you are,” he says, snapping the book he’d been reading closed. “Shall we be off, then?”

“Don’t get sick this time, Therion,” Alfyn says, giving the thief a mischievous grin as Therion rolls his eyes. “You neither, Professor.”

“I think you’ll find my health is impeccable…though, even if it weren’t, my colleagues at the academy often remarked upon my commitment to my work, even through the worst of illnesses. There’s nothing to fear, Alfyn.”

“That ain’t gonna fly with me, Professor. You get sick, you’re not doing anything ‘til you’re better.” There’s a sense of finality in the air that’s unusual coming from Alfyn, and it’s enough to keep both of his companions from objecting to the rule he’s laying down. Therion’s always had a rule himself - to be wary of the quiet ones - but he’s starting to wonder if maybe he should be wary of the smiley ones, too.

On the way out of Noblecourt, Alfyn stops, turns around, and stares back at it. “You forget something, Alfyn?” Therion asks.

“No, just…this was a nice little city. Might be fun to come back sometime.”

“What? No. Were you listening at all when Cyrus was telling us about this place? All the corruption in the way it’s run?”

“So you _were?_ ” Alfyn counters, and it’s the most ruthless thing he could have possibly said. Therion swears into his scarf and stalks off, leaving Alfyn laughing and Cyrus shaking his head.

“Quite an observant one, that Therion. I imagine he needs to be, to be good at what he does, but even I thought my teachings to be falling on deaf ears. Then again, perhaps they were,” Cyrus says, giving Alfyn a look.

“Come on, Professor, wanting to come back and visit somewhere doesn’t mean I don’t know it’s dangerous. It just kinda seemed like Therion liked the place, so…” He scratches the back of his head.

“Did he?” Cyrus asks. “He complained the whole time.”

“Yeah, but weren’t all those complaints about Barham and Orlick?” Alfyn smiles fondly in the vague direction of Therion, who’s so far ahead he’s more or less disappeared over the next hill. “I’ve been travelin’ with him for a while, and it was the most relaxed I’ve ever seen him, last night in the tavern.”

Cyrus crosses his arms. “If we don’t catch up, I’m afraid your traveling days are over.”

“Shoot, you’re right - let’s go, Professor! Wait up, Therion!” Alfyn calls, breaking into a run.

A barely audible “Screw you!” sails back with the breeze to meet him.

When the two of them eventually catch up with him, Therion’s halfway through an apple, still looking thoroughly incensed. “I should’ve gone off the path until you walked right past me,” he mutters.

“If you did that, you really might end up needin’ an amputation,” Alfyn chides him. “And that ain’t happening on my watch.”

Therion shrugs. “I wouldn’t be on your watch if I disappeared.”

“Don’t even joke about that,” Alfyn says. “I’d be worried sick. Shucks, you told us last time you disappeared for a while and I was still worried sick.”

“You mean when I was getting the dragonstone?”

Alfyn nods. “By the time you got back to the tavern, I’d already had a couple of drinks, ‘cause I couldn’t stop worryin’ about you…”

“Sounds to me like you’ve just got a drinking problem.” Therion hears Alfyn sigh over his shoulder, put out by yet another deflection on his part, but if he gives an inch, the apothecary won’t hesitate to take a mile. And that's no good, but even worse is that maybe he wouldn't mind that very much.

“Now, now,” Cyrus interjects. “He's got a witness willing to corroborate his version of events, Therion. We both had concerns about your wellbeing.”

Therion scoffs, picking at the bangle, and he doesn't even flinch when Alfyn reaches over to take his arm. “It's itching again,” he says, seeing Alfyn's mouth open and about to ask a question. “I haven't been scratching it.”

“Good.” He reaches into his satchel for the salve. “This time, though, the problem's easy. We slept in so late we didn't bother usin’ this before we left. Sorry ‘bout that…just give me two shakes.”

“It's not your fault,” Therion mutters, fingers twitching in relief as Alfyn rubs the salve in. “What's in this stuff, anyway?”

Alfyn pauses, narrowing his eyes in thought. Therion is about to ask if he's seriously forgotten the ingredients when he finally responds, shaking his head. “Not gonna give away a trade secret like that, Therion. Not while you're threatenin’ to run off, and the like.” He twists the lid of the jar back on. “You're smart enough you could probably figure it out if I told you…so I ain't gonna.”

Therion gapes at him. “You're kidding.”

“Nope! I ain't the most bountiful bushel in the field, but I ain't the least, either.” Alfyn shrugs. “Can't always tell with you, so if I wanna keep you around - and I do,” he adds, easing into one of his trademark gentle smiles, “I gotta keep some secrets to myself, right?”

Therion isn't sure what infuriates him more, that Alfyn managed to come away with the upper hand _again_ or the flush of embarrassment staining his face.

“I feel as though now it's your life for which I should worry, Alfyn,” Cyrus says, putting a hand on his shoulder, and just like that, it's completely too late for Therion to admit he was only trying to make conversation to make up for how abrupt he'd been earlier.

He doesn't even know why he tries.

Alfyn throws an arm around his shoulder as usual, and Therion shoves it off, a quick, easy movement in an increasingly common routine.

He doesn't know why he tries, but he doesn't see a reason to stop just yet, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just wanna thank everybody for reading this, i haven't had time to respond to all the comments because i've been running a bakeshop myself while my boss is away but please know that you all make my day
> 
> also u can hmu on twitter if you want at @duobrando, i mostly just shitpost and get mad at gacha games but...if u wanna talk about octopus wayfarers.....i'm there


	9. Retrieval

The trek to Bolderfall is proceeding as smoothly as it can without H'aanit - that is to say, it took them longer to get back to S'warkii than it did to get from it to Noblecourt, but not to the point that it’s a problem. Any concerns Therion might have had about losing the huntress's prowess in battle are thoroughly burned to a crisp alongside the first monsters Cyrus opts to incinerate, and with Alfyn keeping a close eye on the two of them through the Frostlands trek, the apparent homeland of the deadly crimson shroud - that seems right, Therion thinks, because he remembers having to steal blankets from other freezing thieves for Darius, and his stomach twists tightly at the belated realization that maybe some of them had been sick, too - neither Cyrus nor Therion fall ill.

But their rations are running low, and neither Therion nor Alfyn say aloud it's because they'd taken H'aanit's hunting for granted, so they stop in her home village to restock.

“It will be nice to sleep in a proper bed again,” Cyrus says, stretching his arms. “I've got quite the ache between my shoulders.”

“Oh, lemme take a look.” Alfyn immediately sets to work prodding Cyrus up and down his back. Therion keeps walking, and just as Alfyn is about to call out to him, he cuts him off as though on cue.

“I'll be at the inn. Maybe I can haggle a lower price out of them if I tell them I'm a friend of H'aanit’s.”

“Aww,” Alfyn coos.

“Shut up!” Therion hadn't meant it like that - as far as he's concerned, it's a lie he'd be telling, but he does think of her on his way toward the inn. He can still point out where he was standing when they met, which house is hers, the path they used to leave.

The path they used to return without her.

The innkeeper recognizes him and offers a discount before he can even ask for one, so Therion heads upstairs and settles into the corner bed before Alfyn or Cyrus can take it. The scholar and the apothecary follow about half an hour later, and Therion lifts his head as the door opens and tries to pretend he hadn't just been taking a nap. Judging by the vaguely amused look on Cyrus’s face and the expression on Alfyn's like he's just found something indescribably precious, it’s a failure. “Were you tired?” Alfyn asks. “I could've carried you - ”

Therion throws a pillow at his face.

“There's no need to resort to violence,” huffs Cyrus as he goes to retrieve the pillow, while Alfyn just gives Therion that annoyingly familiar, irritatingly endearing smile.

“You've got the right idea anyway, Therion,” he says, carefully placing his satchel down next to one of the other beds. “I’m beat. Don’t even think I’ve got it in me for a drink tonight…”

“Good, because the only thing I’m paying for tonight is the room.” Therion takes his pillow back from Cyrus and fluffs it.

Alfyn holds his hand out, and Therion gives him his arm as usual. “How’s this been feelin’ lately? Better since we got out of the Frostlands, I hope.”

Therion cringes at the memory. Wearing freezing metal is never pleasant to begin with, and the cold weather drying his skin out had only made the rash worse - it’s still raw and painful, even after a few days in the more temperate forests of the Woodlands. Alfyn’s been doing what he can to adjust his salve to the new symptoms, but it’s not perfect.

Still, it’s a lot of work, and Therion’s thankful for it, even though he won’t say it out loud.

“Yeah, it’s a little better. Doesn’t hurt as much.”

“Good.” Alfyn gives Therion’s wrist a little squeeze, then lets go of it. “It looked pretty bad…it’s healin’ up again now, but I was kinda worried there.”

“You and me both,” he mutters, laying down and rolling to face the wall.

“Shall we depart after replenishing our supplies tomorrow, or do either of you have business here?” Cyrus asks, reaching for the lamp to turn it down.

“I’m good. What about you, Therion?”

“There’s nothing here that’s worth stealing,” he says, even as he recalls some of the impeccably-crafted weapons that H’aanit had lying around. “So just hitting the road is fine by me.”

The next morning, they purchase as many supplies as the three of them can carry, many of them ending up in Alfyn’s satchel. Therion is the one in charge of the transaction for his haggling prowess, and both Cyrus and Alfyn are amazed at how personable he can pretend to be in order to get his way. And if either of them notice that he walked out of the store with close to two pounds more apples than he paid for, well, neither of them say anything about it.

“You like those things, huh?” Alfyn asks, eager as always to pounce on a topic to get Therion talking.

“Yeah. They're easy to pilfer and they taste good, which is all a food needs to be.”

“And that's why they disappear from my satchel every time I have ‘em?” Alfyn playfully gives his shoulder a shove.

Therion shrugs. “Maybe if you can ever catch me, I'll stop, but that doesn't seem likely.”

Alfyn laughs, grinning at him, and Therion pulls an apple out of his mantle to give himself an excuse to stop talking. He doesn't like this - the way conversations with him have felt so easy, lately. The way he almost _wants_ to tell Alfyn every sordid detail about his past, because he knows he'll sympathize. The pride that blooms in his chest every time he gets Alfyn to smile.

It's all so terrifying, but scarier still is that he can't seem to stop himself.

“You ever had an apple pie before, Therion?” Alfyn asks, looking downright alarmed when he shakes his head. “Well, then, we gotta fix that, don't we! If we stop over in Clearbrook on our way to Saintsbridge, there's a woman two houses down from Zeph who bakes pies that I swear are blessed by all twelve of the gods, they're so good. You'll never settle for just stealin’ apples again!”

Cyrus considers interrupting to remind Alfyn that encouraging Therion to steal something more expensive and labor-intensive than apples isn't a good idea, but ultimately realizes it’s probably a conclusion Therion would’ve come to by himself eventually, anyway. “Saintsbridge, is it?” he asks instead. “What manner of business do you have there?”

“Well, after we drop you off in Quarrycrest, we promised we’d meet some friends of ours there. H’aanit and Ophilia are doin’ the Kindling together while they look for H’aanit’s master.” Alfyn reaches into his satchel for an apple of his own, then offers one to Cyrus, who graciously accepts it.

“The Kindling? You’re referring to the Sacred Flame of Aelfric?”

Alfyn nods. “It’s pretty amazing! Ophilia’s younger than me, but she’s already doin’ something so important…” He sighs wistfully. “Makes me feel like I gotta work even harder to catch up. And there’s Therion, too, bein’ a master thief already…”

“Now, now,” Cyrus says, patting him on the shoulder. “All in due time, Alfyn. Rushing ahead before you’re ready may just produce a setback. Besides,” he adds, “I’ve no doubt you’ll do great things. Your passion for your work is among the strongest I’ve ever seen.”

“That’s a lot of words to just say he’s a busybody,” Therion says over his shoulder.

“Is it not better to be busy than idle?” Cyrus asks, without a trace of irony.

As the scenery around them becomes more sparse, as the trodden dirt roads become solid rock and trees become fewer and far between, their pace naturally slows as they have to incorporate upward movement into their route. Therion, impatient to return the dragonstone, regards the change with some resentment. The Cliftlands are hard enough for him to be in in the first place - it all looks the same, steep drops and red stone as far as the eye can see, and that means every inch of it reminds him of the spot where…

“Hey,” Alfyn interrupts his train of thought, reaching for his wrist. “You're scratchin’ it again.”

“Shit.” He hadn't even noticed. “Sorry, I - ”

Alfyn just gives him a patient smile. “You don't gotta apologize to me, Therion. Fact is, I should be the one apologizin’ to you if it's still givin’ you trouble…” He reaches into his satchel and pulls out a bottle of what Therion has come to recognize as disinfectant, and his hand twitches in anticipation of the stinging pain that tends to accompany this particular tincture. “It's gonna - ”

“Hurt a little, I know,” Therion finishes, hissing as it does just that. “You don't have to warn me every time.”

“Sure, but I wanna.” Alfyn runs his fingertips over Therion's wrist, then down the back of his hand, just to make sure the rash isn’t spreading. “It's just…y'know, you kinda seem like you've been hurt enough.”

Therion rolls his eyes. “It's just a potion.”

Alfyn laughs sheepishly, blotting the disinfectant away with a cloth. “Yeah, I guess it is.” He fiddles with the bangle, frowning. “I wish I could just pry this right off you. I can't even put a bandage on like this...please, Therion, you gotta stop scratchin’ at it, okay? If it gets infected, it'll go from bad to worse faster than you think.”

Therion nods curtly. “I got distracted. It won't happen again.”

“Thinkin’ about the people who put you up to this?”

“Yeah, I guess,” he replies, shrugging.

“I know you said they wouldn't, but could you at least ask ‘em to take this off for you? So I can treat your wrist properly?” Alfyn still hasn't let go of Therion's hand, something he’s only just now noticed.

He pulls his mantle up over his face, gently pulling his arm away. “Sure, I'll ask. Just don't expect anything to come of it.”

But days later, when Cordelia Ravus motions for Heathcote to remove it, Therion yanks his hand out of the butler's grasp before he can so much as touch it.

“Think about what you're doing,” he says, and he's suddenly not sure if he's talking to her or to himself. “If you…if you take this off now, then…”

Then Alfyn will treat his wrist, and…and then what? Once it's healed, he has no obligation to follow him around anymore. He can go off and do his own thing, chase plague victims down in the streets to cure them, fix more important people suffering from more serious conditions.

He'll leave. He'll leave, but why is that such a bad thing all of a sudden?

Therion is so caught off guard by his own reaction that he stops listening, even as Cordelia and Heathcote continue.

“Please, Heathcote,” she says imploringly. “Can't you see the condition his arm is in?”

“I see it, my lady. And I do apologize for your circumstances,” he says, polite as always as he gives Therion a little bow. “However…” With an uncanny speed, he grabs the bangle, looking over Therion's arm. “You've found an apothecary, have you not? It would be much worse if you hadn’t, I’d wager.”

“Of course I have,” Therion grunts, crashing back into the conversation headfirst. “I figured I didn’t have a choice, since you don't seem like the type who'd take pity on someone just because they're having a reaction to your stupid bangle.”

“Correct. My, you are a bright one,” Heathcote says, smiling, and Cordelia shakes her head furiously.

“Heathcote,” she starts again, but Therion interrupts her.

“If you want those stones back, you'd best keep this on me. There's nothing stopping me from running off if you take it off.”

“No,” she says, “I have faith that you would bring them back to me anyway.”

And she's probably right, really, but he rolls his eyes. “Yeah, because I don't have better things to do. Putting your faith in someone like me is a mistake.”

“I don't think it is.” She gives Heathcote another imploring look, but he shakes his head again.

“Let him be, my lady. If he doesn't want me to remove the bangle, then what am I to do? This is a matter of personal pride for him, and I hesitate to attempt to take that from him, too.”

Cordelia, clearly unhappy with the situation, gives another worried glance at Therion's arm. “But…”

“I'll be fine.” He crosses his arms. “Now, tell me where the next stone is.”

“We've traced it to a black market in Wellspring. Infiltrating it should be an easy task for you, yes?” Heathcote chuckles. “Though unfortunately, I wasn't able to find anything useful myself.”

“You sure you tried?” Therion asks flatly, not believing him for a second.

“Most assuredly. I’m afraid I'm simply out of touch with the kind of people who frequent such places.”

“Uh-huh.” His voice is heavy with doubt. “Well, I'll be heading out now.”

Cordelia takes a step forward. “Please let me see you off.”

Therion frowns deeply, but what can he do to stop her? So he heads for the town gate, where Cyrus and Alfyn are already waiting. Alfyn lights up like a starry sky when he sees Therion, rushing over to meet him. “Therion!”

“I thought you two would've run off. Your loss.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Cyrus says. “We could hardly leave you now, when you still have two stones to gather.”

Cordelia gives Therion an encouraging smile. “I'm glad you've found some trustworthy companions,” she says. “Please keep Mr. Therion safe. He's…”

“Heh, don't worry about it!” Alfyn puts an arm around Therion's shoulder. “And don’t worry about what that bangle of yours is doin’ to him, neither,” he adds petulantly, “since I’ll be takin’ care of that.” Therion tries and fails to muffle a chuckle, if only because he’s never heard Alfyn so irritated with another person before.

Heathcote and Cordelia exchange glances, and Therion suddenly feels like they’ve reached a huge misunderstanding, but before he can say anything about it, the lady of Ravus Manor curtsies gracefully. “Then I’ll leave him in your capable hands. Thank you for your help, and…” She twists her hands in her skirt. “I’m…very sorry about that reaction of yours. If you ever find yourself in need of ingredients, you have our most trusted merchants at your disposal - you need only ask, and give them this.” She holds out a letter of introduction - a real one, this time, though the recipient and the writer are reversed. “They should charge you nothing, but if they do, I will reimburse you, of course.”

“You know you’re just _asking_ to be robbed blind like this, right?” Therion asks.

Cordelia shakes her head. “No. You’re not the kind of person who would. Especially not after announcing it like that.”

H’aanit said the same thing. Therion makes a vaguely argumentative noise as he takes the letter and stuffs it into his mantle.

“How fortuitous. Were you not just saying you needed some materials, Alfyn?” Cyrus asks. Alfyn nods.

Cordelia gives the three of them a shy smile. “Well, then…I should let you be. Thank you for delivering the dragonstone, Mr. Therion,” she says, “and I hope to see you again soon. Be safe.”

He makes another noise in response, but doesn’t turn toward the gate until she and her butler have vanished up the stairs.

“I can’t believe she wouldn’t take the thing off you!” Alfyn fumes, properly incensed now that he’s not in polite company.

“Heathcote’s the one who put it on. Yell at him next time,” Therion says, fiddling with it. He frowns suddenly, then looks back over his shoulder at the steps to Ravus Manor.

“What’s the matter?”

“No. It’s nothing.” He turns to Cyrus. “You were headed to Quarrycrest, right?”

“Indeed. Is this where we part, then?” he asks.

Therion glances up at Alfyn, who looks downright miserable at the thought of parting ways, and sighs heavily. “I have to go to Wellspring. But if I remember the area right, the black market down there’s a little shifty...shifter than usual, anyway. It’ll take some time to get the dragonstone cleared for auction and even longer for the actual event to take place.” He shrugs. “And even if I’m late, it’s easier to steal from some sucker’s personal collection than it is from an auction that’s being constantly surveilled.”

“Are you sayin’ what I think you’re sayin’?” Alfyn asks.

“I’m saying I want to watch him burn a couple more marmots to a crisp.”

“I’d be happy to have the company,” Cyrus says, “though you _can_ be more direct about your intentions next time.”

“That’s just kinda how he is,” Alfyn says. “Last time he was so indirect he didn’t even get to tell H’aanit and Ophilia he was gonna miss ‘em before they left.”

“That’s because I wasn’t going to miss them, and I still don’t,” Therion mutters, though he knows neither of them believe it.

Belatedly, he realizes Alfyn’s arm is still around his shoulders as they head out of town.

Maybe he’ll let it stay there for a little while.


	10. Gideon

Quarrycrest isn’t the kind of place Therion associates with the scholarly pursuits, and while Cyrus is a bit of an idiot about certain matters, the location of one of his former colleagues doesn’t seem like one of them, so he lets the scholar lead the way as they blow into town.

“A mining village,” he remarks to himself. “I’ve never been here before.”

Alfyn’s practically buzzing with nervous energy. “I’ve heard miners can get coughs somethin’ awful. You think they’d mind if I went and asked around, just to see if everyone’s feeling alright?”

Therion shrugs. “Can’t hurt, right? If you’re that worried, just go. I’ll take care of the professor here.”

“Yeah…yeah, maybe I will. Thanks, Therion.” Before either he or Cyrus can get a word in, Alfyn’s already off, taking the steps to the mines by two, and Therion watches him go, shaking his head.

“What an exhausting guy.”

“Admirable is the word I would use, I think, given his desire to help people,” Cyrus says, leading Therion up a different staircase. “He quite reminds me of myself at his age, though our passions lie in different fields. Eager to a fault…” He looks over his shoulder at Therion. “Though it may help him to have someone like you holding him back when he needs it.”

“Who says I’m going to stick with him that long?” Therion asks, fingers coming to a rest on the bangle. “Babysitting him isn’t my idea of a good life.”

“It seems to me that he’s the one babysitting you,” Cyrus says thoughtfully. Therion wants more than anything in the world to be able to argue, but Alfyn is literally taking care of him, after all, so he just glowers at him instead. “Ah, but we can finish this conversation later. For now…yes, I believe this is Odette’s house.”

He knocks on the door and a blonde woman opens it, peering out at him. Cyrus opens his mouth, presumably to greet her, and she shuts it in his face.

When she opens it again, with a “You’re still here,” and a bewildered expression, Therion is very close to tears from trying not to laugh. Cyrus can definitely hear him choking on his own mirth, but he handles the situation as professionally as he handles everything: by completely ignoring Therion and closing the door behind him as passive-aggressively as possible once he’s established to Odette that he needs her assistance.

Therion follows him in once he’s gotten his breathing under control - and once the raucous, house-shaking laughter from Odette comes to a halt - just in time to hear some of the details about what it is Cyrus is looking for. A book, called _From the Far Reaches of Hell._

“Actually,” Cyrus says, an idea occurring to him, “Therion, the title doesn’t sound familiar to you, does it? Have you come across it in your journeys through…less than legal markets, perhaps?”

“No,” Therion says, shaking his head. “But I’ve never really gone after books, so it’s not my area of expertise. What’s so important about it?”

“It’s been missing from the restricted section of the Academy’s library for years, and I aim to return it to its rightful place. Clearly, it’s been stolen, but I suppose it would be too convenient for only the second thief I’ve encountered to know anything about it.” He runs a hand through his hair, sighing. “But what's this you were saying about people disappearing, Odette?”

Cyrus and Therion leave with an impromptu mission, and they split up to ask the locals about it. Therion heads to the tavern as usual, while Cyrus busies himself with investigating in town. When they meet up later, it's Cyrus who's found the more valuable information.

“The sewers?” Therion asks, praying to the gods he misheard him. “You're sure?”

“‘Tis the only place a kidnapper has to hide in this town.” He points to a cavern by the inn. “So that is where I will go.”

“Alfyn isn't back yet,” Therion says. “You shouldn't just rush in without…”

“I will be fine, Therion,” Cyrus replies, “but thank you for your concern.”

“I might not be fine!”

Cyrus pauses. “I hadn’t realized you planned to accompany me.”

“I…” Therion grinds his teeth. Why did he have to say anything? “Look, if someone's really kidnapping people, odds are he's just another criminal like me, so don't you think my insight would be useful?”

“I've no doubt you would prove useful, but not for the reasons you think. You see, your thesis is flawed, Therion - you are nothing like the kind of scum who lowers himself to kidnapping.” But Cyrus does change directions, heading for the stairway to the mines. “Shall we fetch Alfyn, then?”

They find him surrounded by a small group of miners, and Therion is temporarily concerned they’re interrupting, but judging by the snippets of conversation he can hear as he and Cyrus approach, any treatments Alfyn needs to do are already over; the people seem to be exchanging stories about their childhoods.

“Oh! Hey, guys!” Alfyn sees the two of them and waves them over. “You wanna sit and chat for a while?”

“As much as I would love to, I have something important to do. It concerns a recent string of kidnappings in the area…”

A dark murmur ripples through the crowd as they all gloomily acknowledge Cyrus’s words. “Are you gonna find out who’s been doing it?” one of the miners asks him.

“With any luck, yes. This should be cleared up very shortly. Therion and I will - ”

“I’ll come too,” Alfyn interrupts, standing. “It wouldn’t feel right to sit around knowin’ you two were up to something so important!”

“I was about to ask if you would like to accompany us,” Cyrus says. “Though it was Therion’s idea to ask you…I had originally intended on going on my own.”

“It’s a good idea. If something happened to either of you…” Alfyn grimaces. “Let’s go. I’ll see you later, guys!” he says, waving at the miners, who all see the three men off with words of encouragement.

It feels kind of nice to be celebrated like this once in a while, Therion decides - even if they haven’t really done anything yet.

The sewers are just about as miserable as any of them expected - damp, smelly and generally unpleasant. Therion’s had a lot of bad hideouts in his time, but none of them were ever quite as disgusting as this. He wrinkles his nose and wraps his scarf tightly around the lower half of his face, watching Cyrus and Alfyn both give him envious glances. He smirks at both of them, only realizing after neither of them respond that they can’t see it.

Things go slowly at first. If there really is someone or something in the sewers reaching out and grabbing people, they’re not even close to the entrance - something that checks out, logically, but isn’t any less annoying for it. But as they get further and further inside, the monsters they encounter start to look…strange. Unworldly, not quite like anything Therion’s ever seen before.

“I’ve a bad feeling about this,” Cyrus says. “Whatever is lurking down here…it is fearsome indeed.”

It’s not much of a surprise when they stumble upon the hidden chambers in the sewer. Cyrus immediately strides over to the magic circle on the floor, brows furrowed in thought as he examines it. Alfyn, however, is more focused on the man chained to the wall behind it. It’s dark, illuminated only by the eerie glow of the circle, but Therion can still see all the color drain from his face as he approaches the man and realizes he’s too far gone to save.

“Cyrus,” Therion mutters. “What the hell is this?”

“I…” Cyrus hesitates, studying a small number of brilliant red crystals scattered around the circle. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it. This is…High Hornburgian…? What sort of sorcery is this…?”

Alfyn yelps all of a sudden, drawing the attention of both of them; the body on the wall has fallen to the floor. “I swear I didn’t touch him!” It would be funny if he weren’t so distressed, but as it is, he's doing everything he can to keep it together. Therion lets Cyrus return to his mumbling and kneels by the body.

“This must be one of the people who disappeared,” he says. Alfyn nods, still staring helplessly down at the corpse. “Do you see anything weird about the body? Maybe we can figure something out.”

“It…he…” Alfyn gestures vaguely. “There’s…there should be bruises where he was bein’ held up,” he says. “There ain’t any. And everyone goes kinda pale when they die, but he’s…it’s like the blood’s been sucked clear out of his body.”

“That’s it,” Cyrus mutters from behind them. “These crystals…they’re made from human blood.”

Alfyn looks like he’s going to be sick, so Therion takes the opportunity to sidle away. In doing so, he comes across something he’d recognize anywhere - a barred door to a jail cell. Without even thinking about it, he reaches for his lockpicks, and he’s already working on it when he finally thinks to call out to the others. “Hey, medicine man, there are more people over here. You think they’re still alive?”

Cyrus and Alfyn both rush over to the cell, where the apothecary breathes a sigh of relief. “Yeah. Yeah, they’re alive.”

“Someone,” Cyrus says, voice shaking with indignation, “is kidnapping people for the purpose of producing these crystals. And I am not leaving until I find out who it is.”

“Well, I guess that makes this easy.” A voice unknown to all three of them rings out as a man in a black cloak steps forward. “Though you should amend your statement somewhat, as you won’t be leaving at all.”

Therion goes right back to picking the lock as Cyrus and the man, who calls himself Gideon, continue to talk. “Listen,” he whispers to Alfyn. “I’m gonna pop this open, and you’re gonna get in there and work on getting these people up and out of here while Cyrus and I take on that guy.”

“And leave the two of you without - ”

“Idiot.” Therion twists his hand just a little to the right and the lock pops open. “Who needs more help right now, the people who’ve been in this dingy cell or the two of us?”

Alfyn looks from Therion to the people in the cell. “Okay. Okay,” he says, “but you better keep yourself in one piece, you hear me?”

Therion laughs. “Please. I’ve been in situations way worse than this one. I’ll be fine.” So saying, he closes the door behind Alfyn. “Stay down. If he realizes you’re in here, you don’t have anywhere to run.” Without sparing even a glance backward, he pulls a short sword out from beneath his mantle as he joins Cyrus in a battle stance. “Looks like it’s two on one, Teach.”

“It seems that way.” The air around Cyrus’s hands wavers with heat, and Therion swears he can see sparks and smoke. “Normally, I would require a prior appointment for supplementary lessons like this, but I’ll make an exception just this once.”

Therion’s not sure if now’s the time for wisecracks, but time spent mouthing off is less time fighting, so he makes a mental note to give Cyrus hell for it later. For now, he has to focus on keeping Gideon distracted enough for Cyrus to cast his spells - a task that would be easy enough if it were just him, but the undead minions he calls forth complicate matters somewhat.

“Therion, get down!” Cyrus cries, and he barely has time to do so before a stream of flame comes roiling past him. He can feel the heat even through his layers of clothing.

Making a mental note to never piss Cyrus off, Therion swings his sword at Gideon, but his blade is caught by a wicked, moon-shaped sickle. Judging by the dried blood caked onto the handle, it’s what he’s been using to bleed his victims dry. With a grunt, he thrusts his sword forward, staggering him; he drops his weapon, and with a flick of his wrist, Therion sends it flying. He feels another wave of heat wash over him as Cyrus takes out another skeleton, and then something else - like the world lurches around him.

“Blast…! Dark magic?!” He hears Cyrus, but can’t see him, or much of anything for that matter. He thinks dimly that it doesn’t hurt as much as he always sort of thought dark magic would, but that’s the precise moment when the pain sets in - and it’s agonizing, shooting up and down his entire body. There’s another heatwave, a flash of light, muffled voices, and then just as abruptly as it began, it ends, and Therion sits up, gasping for breath.

Gideon is still fighting Cyrus when he gets his bearings. It’s a sight to behold, two accomplished mages slinging spells at one another, but he doesn’t have time to watch it. Circling around Cyrus, hiding behind the flashes and pops of light produced by the magic sparking between the two scholars, Therion swiftly and efficiently finds himself within stabbing distance.

The battle stutters to a halt as the blade of his sword comes poking through Gideon's ribs. He seems more alarmed than in pain, even as Therion pulls the sword out of his body.

An awful creaking sound emanates through the room just after he falls to the ground, and both Therion and Cyrus look up toward the source, ready for another fight. “Whoa, whoa! It’s me, guys!” Alfyn calls out. “I just figured now that he’s out, we can let these people out too, right?”

“Yeah,” Therion says. “This guy isn’t gonna be kidnapping anyone else, that’s for damn sure.”

Alfyn leads the three prisoners to the entrance of the workshop, then joins Therion and Cyrus in surveying their assailant. “Did you kill him?” he asks quietly.

“The other option was to let Cyrus kill him, and that was gonna take a while, so yeah, I did,” Therion says, his tone overly defensive. “In case you forgot, this guy’s a murderer.”

Cyrus kneels while the two of them talk, spotting something that piques his interest.

“It ain’t like I forgot, I just…” Alfyn shrugs. “You did what you had to.”

“This is…!” Cyrus pulls a book out from the folds of the man’s robe. “The book I’ve been looking for!”

“Wait, seriously?” Therion’s conversation with Alfyn is all but forgotten. “This guy had it the whole time?”

Cyrus flips through the pages, frowning slightly. “Upon further inspection, not quite…this isn’t the copy I’m looking for. It’s abridged, I’m afraid. And I doubt highly that an abridged version would make it to the restricted archives…still, even just from this, I can tell that it is a frightful tome indeed. And this is…” He removes a piece of parchment from between two pages, disgust apparent in his expression. “Someone commissioned the creation of those blood crystals, as well. Though there seems to be no information about how one goes about using them in this version of the text, so I've no idea where to begin searching for the person who wanted these vile things…” He continues to mumble to himself as he scours the pages for clues.

Therion moves to wipe the blood off his sword when Alfyn sidles up next to him. “Thank you,” he says quietly.

“For what?” Therion slides the sword back into its scabbard and tucks it away underneath his mantle.

“Talkin’ me through it earlier. I…shucks, you two didn't flinch at all when you realized that man was dead, but…”

Therion shrugs. “You get used to pretty unpleasant stuff in my line of work. I kind of thought you'd be used to it in yours, too.”

Alfyn laughs weakly. “Sure, this ain't my first time…bein’ too late, and all, but…it never gets easier. Everyone says it does, someday, but…”

Therion doesn't know what to say. As far back as he can remember, he's never been this shaken by dead bodies. Even as a child, they were more a cautionary tale than anything else - he knew, instinctively, that the same fate would befall him if he got caught too many times. He and Darius had joked about the unfortunate would-be thieves they would occasionally encounter in search of treasure, done in by obvious traps or stupid mistakes, confident the same would never happen to them.

He wonders what Alfyn, still pale as a ghost himself, would think if he knew about that.

Cyrus shuts the book, standing. “I must return to Odette's abode at once. We shall research the origins of this tome, so that I might know where it was created…and, with any luck, discover the whereabouts of the unabridged text. You're free to go to Saintsbridge, if you'd like - thank you for your assistance in this matter.”

Therion shrugs. “I don't mind waiting until we know where you have to go.” Alfyn nods beside him.

Cyrus gives them a handsome smile. “To be honest, I had hoped you would say that.”

They make one last cursory examination of the chamber just to make sure nothing else is amiss, and then head back the way they came. When they arrive in town, a small crowd of people with weapons is congregating in front of the entrance to the sewer. “What the hell is going on here?” Therion asks.

“Oh!” One of the people Therion recognizes from the jail cell points at the three of them. “It's alright, everyone, they're back!”

“Quarrycrest is free of the menace lurking in its shadows,” Cyrus says, his cloak swirling dramatically as he shifts his posture. “The man responsible for the kidnappings is dead. I only regret we did not arrive earlier…however, you may all rest easy tonight.”

The crowd expresses their thanks to the travelers as they make their way back to Odette's house, where Cyrus stops them.

“Here,” he says, handing his coinpurse to Therion. “Enjoy yourselves while I continue my research. I promise I shall have results on the morrow.”

“That's a pretty tall order,” Therion remarks, looking over to the moon rising in the sky.

“And yet, it will be done.” Cyrus shoos the two of them away. “Now go, revel in our victory tonight! I shall join you once I have the information I seek.”

“He's in a pretty good mood, huh,” Alfyn remarks as they head to the tavern.

“Yeah, that makes one of us.” Therion gives him a pointed look, but Alfyn waves it off.

It isn't until he's four drinks into the night that he says anything about it, but once he does, it's impossible to get him to stop talking about it. “I don't get it,” he says for the umpteenth time. “I just don't know why someone would - why'd he kill those people? For money? Is that it?”

“I'm pretty sure we established that was it an hour ago,” Therion says, feeling a headache building in the back of his brain. “Some people are just rotten. It's not that hard to understand.”

“But it is!” Alfyn slams his mug down on the table so hard, Therion's impressed it doesn't break. “There isn't…there wasn't anyone like that in Clearbrook. I never even…”

“If it bothers you that much, all you need to do is just keep doing what you're doing,” Therion says, realizing only after he's spoken that it sounded better in his head. He tries to clarify: “Some people just aren't any good, and everything they do turns to shit. But people like you and Cyrus…you're why they can be everywhere in the world and it still keeps turning.” He stops, coming to the conclusion that he only makes less sense the more he talks, and glances over at Alfyn to see a thoroughly charmed apothecary staring back at him. “Just keep drinking so you forget I said anything,” he mumbles.

“Not a chance! I'll never drink again if it means I never forget it!”

“You can't go a week without a trip to the alehouse, you idiot!” He isn't sure how he did it, but all that's important to Therion, at this very moment, is that Alfyn's smiling again.

“Shucks,” he says, cheeks tinted pink in embarrassment, “it wasn't the prettiest, but that might be the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me. Thanks, Therion.”

Therion shrugs, playing it off as best he can, with barely so much as a glance in his direction. It might be the nicest thing he's ever said to anyone else, too.

Definitely not the prettiest, though. Alfyn had that one right.

By the time Cyrus arrives at the tavern, Therion's fallen asleep at the table, and Alfyn is knocking back another drink. “Is he going to be alright?” Cyrus asks, regarding the thief with concern.

“Yeah, he'll be fine. Stopped drinkin’ hours ago, so I think he's just tired.” Alfyn carefully reaches for his face and lifts Therion's hair out of his eyes. “Damn it. I knew it,” he mutters, letting it drop back down over the scar running down his face. “Damn it! I’ve been tellin’ myself I wouldn't do that for an hour! I was gonna wait for him to show me himself!” He lets his head drop, too, right onto the table with a quiet thump.

“‘Tis an old wound, Alfyn, you need not worry about it,” Cyrus says, pulling a chair out to sit.

“I'm worried about all his scratches and scrapes. Makes it a little difficult, to be honest, because I can't see most of ‘em.” He sighs and looks back over at Therion. “But even when he lets his guard down, it's back up before I even realize he let it down in the first place.”

Cyrus frowns thoughtfully. “I suggest you let him open up at his own pace. Though love does make one impatient, does it not?”

Alfyn laughs again, quiet and solemn. “Yeah,” he says, giving Therion's sleeping form a quiet little smile. “Yeah, I guess it does.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alfyn's been in love with therion for ages and talking to cyrus about it basically The Whole Time He's Been Here because he has a heart ten sizes too big and therion is the nasty crimeboy of his dreams
> 
> ok maybe that's not quite it but you all know what i mean. we stan a king (of thieves)


	11. Gratitude

Therion has noticed, of course, that Cyrus is still here. It's impossible not to notice him, really, given that he rarely stops talking. He needs to be in Stonegard, and for a heart-stopping moment after Cyrus first said the name of the city, Therion thought it was going to take away another person he's come to enjoy traveling with.

But after making the announcement, Cyrus had simply left it at that, asking instead when Therion and Alfyn planned to leave for Saintsbridge. And here the three of them are, on the outskirts of Alfyn's hometown of Clearbrook, and Cyrus hasn't said anything else about Stonegard.

Therion hasn't said anything about it, either. If he does, Cyrus will either leave or point out that he cares, and neither of those things are outcomes that Therion wants to deal with.

“What a quaint little village,” Cyrus says. “If I'm not mistaken, this is also where my dear Mercedes comes from. Are you acquainted with her, Alfyn?”

“I am, but what d'you mean, your _dear_ Mercedes…?” Alfyn seems uncharacteristically thrown by Cyrus's wording, like he's dreading the answer. “She ain't another one of those girls whose hearts you've broken, is she?”

“Certainly not! She's told me more than once that she still keeps dear the memories of a boy she grew up with in Clearbrook. And even if fraternizing with a coworker weren’t frowned upon, it hardly seems gentlemanly to insert oneself between a lady and the man she loves.” Cyrus has a moment of realization, turning to Alfyn. “Was she talking about you?”

“What? Of course not!” Alfyn vehemently shakes his head. “She’s gotta be talkin’ about Zeph. He's never really gotten over her, so…guess it's good for him. I wonder if there's anything I can do to set ‘em up…”

“Alfyn?” A little girl further ahead on the trail suddenly stops and turns, recognizing the apothecary's voice.

“Nina!” Alfyn throws his arms open just as the girl comes barreling down the path, throwing herself at him for a hug. “How've you been? You look like you got a little taller, maybe!”

“Yeah! Zeph had to put a new notch in the wall and everything!” She clings to his neck, and Alfyn scoops her into his arms and starts carrying her, not even so much as breaking his stride. “He was just saying the other day that he missed you…”

“Was he, now? Then I'll be sure to surprise him while I'm here.” He ruffles Nina's hair affectionately, giving her a wide grin. “So what's been goin’ on?”

She shifts a little in his arms. “Well…I still can't go picking waterblooms…there's still snakes. None like the one that got me, but…” She frowns. “We asked some people to take care of ‘em for us but they’re not back yet.”

Alfyn hums thoughtfully. “I know you like waterblooms best, but maybe you can find some different ones with me? I gotta go gather some cinder root while I’m here and I sure could use the company.”

“Cinder root…oh! That's for, uh, fevers?” Nina's brow furrows as she tries to remember her brother's books.

“Yeah. My friend here got sick and I used all of it makin’ him better.” He gestures to Therion, who just averts his eyes to the ground. “I don't think you two met last time you were here, right, Therion? Nina, this is the guy who helped me take down that viper.”

Nina gives Therion a huge smile, waving enthusiastically. “Thanks, mister! Nice to meetcha!”

“Nice to meet you too,” Therion mumbles, still looking anywhere but at her. He’s never been good with children.

Alfyn and Nina talk the whole rest of the way, leaving Therion feeling more and more like a third wheel. He looks over at Cyrus, who shrugs and shakes his head. At least he isn't alone.

Clearbrook hasn't changed a bit since he was last in it - though judging by Alfyn's stories about it, it never really does - and Therion heads for the inn out of instinct. Alfyn reaches out and grabs his mantle before he can go anywhere. “We're stayin’ at Zeph's tonight,” he says, even though he hasn't even asked permission yet, and even though he can clearly see Therion's face contort with discomfort at the thought. “But…if bein’ in someone else's place is too much, you can - I just sorta figured it wouldn't bother you.”

“Why, because I break and enter? You realize after the first two steps you leave, right?” Therion sighs in frustration. “I don't like the idea of not leaving.”

“So long as you don't steal anything, it'll be fine,” Alfyn says, and Therion lets himself be pulled over to Zeph's house without any more argument. “Did you meet him, when you were here?”

Therion shakes his head. “I had more pressing things to take care of. I still do,” he says, gesturing at the bangle.

“That's why we're stayin’ at Zeph's. I'm gonna brainstorm with him a little about that wrist of yours. I miss everyone, but I wouldn't make you suffer a minute more than you need to unless I thought I had to. And…well, your rash still ain't much better, and Zeph’s a better apothecary than I am.”

Therion glances down at his wrist. “It looks pretty bad, but it's been feeling a lot better, you know. Don't congratulate yourself if you don't want to, but don't sell yourself short either.”

Alfyn reaches for his arm to take a look himself. “You might wanna work on your pep talks, there, but I appreciate the thought.”

“Just for that, you're not getting any more,” Therion mutters darkly, scowling when Alfyn laughs.

“C'mon, practice makes perfect, right? Just keep givin’ ‘em and you'll master it before you know it.” He lets go of Therion’s arm, apparently satisfied with his condition for now. “Now let’s go get our second opinion.”

They end up having to wait for Zeph to get back from treating someone in town, but once he arrives, he raises a hand in welcome. “Hey there, Alf! I…” He stops short, suddenly realizing what's going on. “Wait, you're back!”

Therion muffles a snort into his scarf.

“Hey, Zeph! How are you? We were in the area, so we thought we'd stop by. This is Cyrus Albright, he's from the Academy - and this is Therion. He's the guy who helped me out when Nina was sick.”

Zeph nods, studying Therion closely. “You weren't kidding when you said he was - ”

“Anyway,” Alfyn interrupts, suddenly much louder than usual, “Therion's got a bit of a medical emergency, so I was hopin’ we could put our heads together and figure something out!”

“It's not really an emergency,” Therion clarifies, offering his wrist for inspection. “As you can see, the damn problem's my own fault anyway.”

Zeph clicks his tongue. “Even a thief doesn't deserve something like this. Isn't there any way we can get this off?” He reaches for the bangle to fiddle with it, and Therion yanks his hand back, slipping it under his mantle.

“I'm already working on that. But for now, it's stuck, and it hurts when you - ”

“Oh, sorry.” Zeph apologizes immediately, leaving Therion to fizzle out in the middle of his admonishment. “I'll be more careful. Please let me see again.” He gingerly prods the swollen flesh around the bangle. “Is this okay? It's just where the metal is that it hurts?”

“Yeah.”

“Alfyn, what do you have for anti-inflammatory medicine?”

Alfyn reaches into his satchel. “The first version I made of the salve he uses has more than the rest of ‘em do, but it wasn't enough to stop it from itching, so…” He hands Zeph a small jar.

“Let's go over all of them together. We might be able to find what's missing if we start from the beginning.”

The two apothecaries start muttering to each other, more or less ignoring Therion. After a few minutes, he stands, startling them. “Well, I’m gonna head to the tavern. Come find me if you need me for anything.”

“See ya later, Therion,” Alfyn says. “Don't worry about a thing. Between Zeph and me, we'll have you all fixed up…or as fixed up as you can be until the good lady takes that bangle off of you.”

Therion makes a noncommittal noise in response, closing the door quietly behind him as he leaves. Cyrus is already at the tavern when he arrives, quietly going through _From the Far Reaches of Hell_ with an intense look of concentration. He briefly glances up when Therion takes a seat next to him. “Alfyn is busy, I take it?” he asks.

“Yeah. He and his friend are trying to figure out how to treat this.” He looks down at the bangle on his arm. “But we probably could've made it to Saintsbridge in the time it'll take them…and Wellspring's black market isn't in any hurry, but I am.”

“I suppose there's one option,” says Cyrus, turning the page of the book, “and that's setting out alone…though Alfyn would be devastated if you did. And it goes without saying that I would be quite upset with you, as well.”

Therion stares at a knot in the table. “Why?”

“Why, what?”

Therion looks over at him, because Cyrus can't possibly be that stupid, only to see Cyrus looking at him with the same expression. Like being fond of him is something that he shouldn't need to explain. Therion swallows his words and shakes his head. “Never mind.”

He drinks his ale in silence as the day passes, bright sunlight in the window eventually darkening to rich red twilight, and Alfyn still isn’t back yet. He can feel his fingers twitching out of lack of things to do, because for some unfathomable reason he hasn't found himself able to steal a single thing since arriving in Clearbrook. The way Alfyn had looked at him as he asked why Therion had come here in the first place leaps unbidden to his mind every time he's thought about it.

“I think,” he says, more to himself than to Cyrus, “I'm going to go for a walk.” The tavern door swings open behind him, but the footsteps aren't nearly heavy enough to be Alfyn's, so he doesn't bother looking to see who it is this time. “And maybe I'll cut my hand off, while I'm at it, so we can _leave_ already.”

“‘Twould be most unwise,” says a familiar voice from just over his shoulder. “Thy livelihood dependeth upon thy fingers.”

Therion turns so quickly he nearly trips on the legs of the chair. “H’aanit?!”

“Hello, Therion.” She pulls her bow off her shoulders and sets it down next to a chair. “If thou wishest to taken a walk, do not letten me stoppen thee. I shall waite here for thy return.”

He sits back down immediately. “No, I just didn't have anything to do. I…have you been here the whole time? What about Saintsbridge?”

“Ophilia will tellen thee more of that. She will be here as soon as our companions are healed.”

Therion is about to ask what she means by companions when a small group of people walks in, Ophilia leading them. The lantern in her hands burns brightly as ever. H'aanit raises an arm to get her attention, and the cleric trots over to her, three other people following in her wake. “There you are, H'aanit, I…” She pauses, finally noticing Therion, and lights up brighter than the flame she's carrying. “Therion! It's so wonderful to see you again! Where is Alfyn?”

“Busy,” he mutters into his ale. 

Cyrus carefully places a bookmark between two pages and shuts his book. “What he is neglecting to mention is that Alfyn is busy for his sake,” he says.

“And who is this?” H'aanit asks, gesturing to him.

“You introduce your pack first,” Therion says, eyeing the other people who've taken seats near H'aanit.

Their names are Tressa Colzione, Primrose Azelhart, and Olberic Eisenberg, the latter of which seems to send Cyrus into a veritable tizzy. “The Unbending Blade of Hornburg himself? Remarkable! I've taught lessons on the fall of Hornburg, of course, but…”

“Let's maybe not remind the huge man with the sword about that kind of thing,” Therion says dryly. “So where did you pick these people up?”

“We met Primrose in Sunshade, after we finished our business in Stonegard,” Ophilia says.

“Azelhart, right?” Therion asks. “We were in Noblecourt not too long ago.”

“Were you?” the dancer asks, lonesome nostalgia creeping into her expression. “You'll have to tell me about it sometime.”

Therion makes a note to himself that that was definitely the wrong move.

“As for Tressa and Olberic…it seems they've been traveling together for a while. When we met, they had just left Victor's Hollow, and were headed south. We met them outside of town a few days ago, actually…” Ophilia gestures to the mountain of a man and the squirrel of a girl sitting next to each other.

“Wait a minute.” Therion holds up a hand. “That's all fine, but what are you doing here, anyway?”

H'aanit shrugs. “Once the Kindling was complete, we weren ready to waiten for thee. But word reached us of a large nest of deadly snakes, and I could not simply doe nothing, as a hunter. So we ventured here to hunten. We had plans to returnen to Saintsbridge, but if thou art already here…” She eyes the bangle on Therion's wrist. “Thy mission is not yet complete.”

“Neither is yours, right? Where’s your master?” Therion snipes back, and H'aanit sighs heavily.

“He hath turneth to stone,” she says, fingers interlaced on the table. “I must finde a way to helpen him.”

That wasn't the answer Therion was expecting, and really, how could it have been? He looks away, suddenly regretting being so flippant about it. “Where are you going?” he asks.

“Stilsnow. And where art thou traveling next?”

“Wellspring,” Therion says glumly.

“Opposite directions again,” H'aanit observes. When Therion is quiet, idly tugging at the bangle, she turns to Primrose. “The man thou searchest for…dost thou knowen if he will flee?” she asks.

Primrose shakes her head. “He has no reason to believe anyone is coming after him. Even after what happened to Helgenish…” She chuckles darkly. “Well, I was far from the only dancer dissatisfied with how he treated us.”

“And thy arm…?” H'aanit holds her hand out, and Therion reluctantly lets her have a look. He hears various murmurs and noises of discomfort as the strangers around the table see the bangle, and then the rash underneath it. “Why, ‘tis worse than when we departed. Hast thou been refusing Alfyn's help?” she accuses him, crossing her arms.

“No, it just…look, I don't understand a lot of it, but the bangle is messing with me more than he expected. He isn't saying that because he doesn't want to worry me, but that's what it is.” He sighs. “The guy’s an open book, even when he’s trying not to say anything.”

H'aanit frowns. “Then…Primrose,” she says, grimacing, “I am sorry, but it seemeth our next destination shall be Wellspring.”

“Don't worry on my account.” Primrose adjusts her hair. “I spent a long time in the Sunlands…a little more won't be enough to break me.”

“‘Tis heartening to hearen thee sayest so.”

“I have matters I must attend to there, as well,” Olberic says. “I am looking for someone, and I was told he resides in Wellspring.”

“Fortuitous indeed,” Cyrus remarks. “Who are you searching for, if I may ask?”

While the two of them talk, Therion hears the door open again, and this time the footsteps that follow sound exactly like Alfyn’s, so he turns toward them. “There you are.”

“Yeah, here I am! It's gettin’ kinda late, so I thought I'd check in, and - shucks, is that Ophilia and H'aanit? Long time no see!” He beams as he takes the last chair at the table, directly across from Therion. “And I see you made some new friends, too!”

Everyone introduces themselves all over again, a round of drinks is ordered for the six who partake - though Tressa does try to sneak a sip from Primrose's glass of wine, and Primrose lets her get away with it once and only once - and the tavern seems just a little livelier with a group so big.

Therion sinks down in his chair, already hating it. He's overwhelmed. Even when it had just been him and Alfyn, he'd barely been able to manage socializing. The prospect of handling six more people is daunting, to say the least. Cyrus puts a hand on his shoulder. “Let us retreat for the night, shall we?” he asks quietly, and H'aanit nods knowingly at Therion as he stands up.

“We shall staye here a while longer. Art thou sleeping at the inn tonight?”

“No, Alfyn's made arrangements for - ”

“The three of us,” Alfyn cuts Therion off. “Sorry, folks, but I didn't expect to have so many people, and Zeph’s only got so much room.”

“‘Tis not a problem,” H'aanit says. “Sleepen well, mine friends.”

Therion breathes a long sigh of relief as soon as they're outside. Alfyn puts a comforting arm around him. “Feelin’ better?” he asks, voice gentle.

“Yeah,” Therion mutters. “It's…a lot.”

“We can leave in the morning before the rest of ‘em wake up,” Alfyn suggests. “Breaks my heart to leave the girls without properly catchin’ up with ‘em, but…”

Therion shakes his head. “No, H'aanit already said she's coming with us. It's fine, I just…you know.”

Alfyn doesn't know, but he nods anyway. Therion shrugs the apothecary's arm off his shoulders and starts the quick walk back to Zeph's house, Cyrus and Alfyn following close behind.

“Did you make any progress on the salve?” Cyrus asks.

“Oh, yeah! Truth is, I was out gathering some herbs to grind for my new and improved recipe. I really think we got it, Therion!” He nudges the thief's arm.

“How much do I owe your friend? If he's the better apothecary, then he'll know well enough to charge for his services, right?” Therion asks, a mischievous grin on his face as he looks over at Alfyn.

“You don't owe him nothin’ either, seein’ as I'm still the one who made the medicine,” Alfyn huffs. “Just let me do this much for you, okay?”

When they arrive at Zeph's house, he's laid out blankets and pillows on the floor. “Alf and I will sleep here,” he says, gesturing to the pile, “and Therion and Cyrus can have my bed and the cot. It's normally for people who have to stay with me so I can watch their condition, but I wash it every time, so it's fine.”

“If I get sick I'm coming back and taking reparations,” Therion mutters as he settles onto the cot, pulling off his mantle and scarf.

“What he means,” Cyrus says, sitting on the edge of Zeph's bed, “is ‘thank you.’”

Zeph laughs. “It's not a problem. Any friend of Alf's is a friend of mine.”

Alfyn and Cyrus both glance toward Therion, expecting his usual deflection, but he just rolls over onto his side with a grunt. After all, he's well past the point where he can say that he isn't at least a little fond of Alfyn.

The next morning, Zeph sees them off as H'aanit's group finishes gathering alongside them. “Here,” he says, handing Alfyn a small package. “All the brambleweed I could find. You're probably gonna need it, if he can't take that bangle off.”

“You sure? Rachelle's got those allergies,” Alfyn starts, but Zeph puts a hand up to stop him.

“Rachelle's got enough medicine to last her the season, and the brambleweed blooms again in about a month. It's fine.”

“Thanks, Zeph,” Alfyn says, voice heavy with emotion. “Damn, I thought it'd be easier to say goodbye the second time…”

Zeph gives him a light punch on the shoulder. “C'mon, Alf, don't be like that. You're doing a real good thing, helping someone out like this.”

Nina comes running over to meet the group, carrying a small woven basket. “Alfyn!” she calls. “I got the thing you were talking about!” She hands it to him. “It's nice and fresh so you guys should eat it while it's warm!”

Alfyn opens the basket to discover an apple pie. “Shucks, Nina, you didn't have to - ”

“I wanted to!” she says, crossing her arms. “Since you said Therion probably wouldn't like the flowers I picked for him, and I had to thank him somehow.”

“You really didn't,” Therion mutters. “I only helped out so I - ”

“I hardly think your reasons matter,” Cyrus says. “You saved the life of a little girl, and that's worth being thanked for, Therion.” He purses his lips and hunches his shoulders. Cyrus lightly pats his back. “Besides, it’s quite rude to refuse thanks from a lady.”

She’s a kid, but semantics are the last thing Therion wants to get in an argument with with Cyrus, of all people, so he lets it drop.

“Good luck with everything,” Zeph says, clasping Alfyn’s hands in his own. “And I mean _everything,_ ” he adds, with a pointed glance toward Therion. “You’re gonna need it.”

Alfyn laughs. “Gimme _some_ credit.” He squeezes Zeph’s hands, then lets go to turn around, waving his hand high in the air. “All right, everyone, gather ‘round, we’re doin’ one last check before we head off to Wellspring! You all got everything you need?”

A chorus of variations on the word “yes” rings out, and with that, the group of eight leaves together, chattering excitedly amongst themselves. It’s Tressa’s first time going to the Sunlands, so Primrose starts to tell her about what to expect. Cyrus and Ophilia are discussing the history of the Sacred Flame, and Olberic appears lost in thought. H’aanit turns to Therion. “Art thou truly satisfied with this? I knowe that thou art not…the most sociable of creatures.”

Therion shrugs. “It just means I have more bodies to throw at my problems if something goes wrong.”

H’aanit laughs, and Therion realizes at that moment just how much he missed the sound of her voice. “Pragmatic as always. It is a pleasure to travelen with thee again.”

Zeph watches the group leave, then turns to head back home. His satchel jingles as he does, and he opens it, confused. Inside is a sizeable sack of leaves, and a hastily scrawled note.

_Alfyn won’t let me pay him, so I asked that merchant girl for the market value of everything he’s put into his damn concoctions. This is the next best thing I can do. Don’t spend it all in one place._

Underneath is a hasty scribble that looks like it might be covering up the word “Thanks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> catch me making up as many plant names as i want to


	12. Heist

Therion’s been all the way around the Middlesea more than once, but for some members of their newly-combined traveling party, it’s their first time in the Sunlands, and that means the complaints haven’t stopped since the temperature began to climb. So far, he’s kept his mouth shut, but he’s also removed the mantle and scarf he usually wears, wrapping them around his waist to keep from having to carry anything.

“I can probably put those in my satchel,” Alfyn offers, but Therion shakes his head.

“I don’t want to smell like grass and medicine for the rest of my life. It’ll make me stand out.”

Alfyn laughs. “I’m just glad you finally took ‘em off. It was makin’ me sweat just lookin’ at you.”

“Then you should have stopped looking at me,” Therion says, shrugging. “I’m not in charge of what you do with your eyes, medicine man.”

“Yeah, but lookin’ at everyone else made me sweat too…” He gestures to the rest of the group, all of whom seem to be struggling somewhat with the heat - save the single exception of Primrose, who isn’t bothered in the least.

“We’re almost there,” she assures him. “I’ve only been allowed to go to Wellspring once or twice, but…this is definitely familiar to me.”

“Allowed,” H’aanit repeats bitterly, restless anger in her eyes. “The man is dead and still I wishe we could killen him once more.”

“Imagine how I feel,” Primrose says, dark laughter in her voice.

“Let’s talk about something that _isn’t_ killing people!” Tressa interjects. “What are you here for, Olberic? You’ve seemed kind of down this whole time.”

The warrior grimaces. “If Erhardt truly is here…the possibility exists that only one of us will walk away from our encounter. I am simply - ”

“What did I just say?!” Tressa runs her hands down her face. “No wonder you guys are always drinking.”

“Yeah, that’s us. Real high-quality role models,” Therion deadpans. “You might as well just turn to a life of crime, because you’re doomed.” It’s kind of fun having someone like her around, if only because she’s the only one who takes the bait every single time.

“No way! It just means I’ll have to work even harder to make up for all of you!”

Case in point.

Tressa’s antics manage to keep everyone’s spirits high enough to last them the last leg of the journey, but when they arrive at the tavern in Wellspring, just about everyone - again, with the exception of Primrose - practically melts into their chairs. A round of drinks is ordered, and in a momentous occasion that has neither occurred before or since, all of them are water.

“So, what’s our plan?” Tressa asks. “I wanna go with Olberic,” she adds, giving Therion a shifty look over her glass.

“You’re all going with Olberic,” Therion says. “I’m not dragging a bunch of dead weight around on a job. H’aanit’s probably the only one who’d be useful, anyway.”

“Then I shall goe with you,” she says, as though that’s decided everything.

Therion sits up, elbow planted on the table as he leans in to talk to her. “No, you won’t. Someone like you would stick out like a sore thumb at a black market auction.”

“She can borrow some of my clothes,” Primrose suggests.

“That’s not the problem.”

“Then what is?” Primrose laces her fingers together, calling his bluff. “You’re worried she’ll get hurt?” 

Therion rolls his eyes. “Of course not. She could probably take the entire town, and that’s not even taking her cat into account.”

Primrose laughs. “You’re right, that’s probably true.” She hums in thought, then leans back. “You’re an interesting person, Therion. Usually when someone is hiding something, I can figure out what it is, but you…”

“Who says I’m hiding anything? I just like to work alone. Besides,” he continues, “you can ask Alfyn or Cyrus - I’m good at what I do, so I don’t need help.”

“He is pretty good,” Alfyn admits. “Even if I still think you should bring someone with you.”

“And why’s that?” Therion asks, giving Alfyn a hostile gaze.

“Well, it’s just…I don’t know how big this auction is gonna be, but…suppose something _does_ go wrong, and you get hurt…”

Therion laughs. “If something goes wrong and I get hurt, I’ll be dead before you can treat me. That’s how this kind of place is.”

“See, sayin’ something like that just makes me want to go with you even more,” Alfyn says, worry creeping into his voice.

“So where are you going, then, Sir Olberic?” Ophilia asks, trying to defuse the tension.

“I must find someone who knows where Erhardt is,” he says, folding his hands on the table. “It would do me no good to wander aimlessly.”

“An excellent start. Should you need assistance, you need only ask,” Cyrus says. “I am quite skilled at discerning the truth, you see…”

“That’s a fun way to say ‘harassing people with unwanted questions,’” Therion mutters. Alfyn gives him a good-natured jab in the ribs.

“Then we shall splitten our group in twain. Alfyn, Primrose and I will goe with Therion, and the rest of you with Olberic.”

Therion opens his mouth to object again, but everyone else responds in unison with affirmatives. And so it is that he finds himself crouched behind a boulder, looking over at a small crowd of people wearing masks, with three people who have never been anywhere near a black market.

“It looks like they only let people in wearing those masks,” he mutters, more for the others’ benefit than his own. “This is why you should’ve all just stayed at the tavern.”

“Thou didst not knowen masks were required until this moment,” H’aanit says dryly.

“Well, now I do, and you still shouldn’t have come along.” He sighs. “But as long as you _are_ here, it’s time to pull your weight, H’aanit. I need a big enough distraction to get a small group of people to gather around, right about…” He gestures to the side of the rock. “Here.”

She nods. “It shall be done. Comen, Linde. Primrose, as well.”

Primrose has an excited bounce to her step as she follows the huntress. “Am I playing the victim again?” she asks slyly.

Therion and Alfyn exchange worried glances with each other, neither of them having the faintest idea what’s about to happen. Before either of them can voice any concerns, Primrose lets out a bloodcurling shriek, pressing herself up against a nearby cliff face. “Please!” she screams. “Help me! Anybody!”

Therion drags Alfyn behind the boulder before the apothecary can properly react, and while he can’t see exactly what’s going on, the sounds Linde is making are obvious enough clues. H’aanit, for her part, is crouched carefully behind a large cactus, keeping close watch on Primrose and Linde. It takes no time at all for a group of people to come rushing toward the source of the scream, and Therion steps out to seamlessly blend in with the crowd. There’s nothing to be done about the people already wearing their masks, but for the ones who aren’t, the clamor over Linde makes it easy enough to grab them and leave.

As soon as he starts to edge away from the crowd, H’aanit gestures pointedly with her left arm, and Linde lets out a ferocious snarl and bolts. Primrose collapses dramatically to her knees, thanking the onlookers for scaring off the beast, assuring everyone that she’ll be fine. One of the men offers to give her a mask so she can pick out something nice to make up for the scare she had. She politely refuses.

She refuses less politely when he doesn’t give up the first time.

Once everyone’s dispersed, one certain man with a swollen red handprint on his cheek, Therion hands out the masks he’s stolen. “A few rules, before we go in. The first rule is to act natural. No gawking, no staring, no nervous glances, no whispering. The second rule is to let me do the talking. All of it. If anyone says anything to you, ignore them or defer to me. Got it?”

“How many black markets have you been to?” Primrose asks, adjusting the mask over her eyes.

“Enough,” Therion says. “Alright, let’s go.”

As expected, the wares being hawked in the cave are all sickeningly expensive-looking. Therion’s fingers itch just being around some of them, but he can’t afford to get sloppy. He’s only here for the dragonstone, and there will be other illegal auctions to steal from in the future, after all. Primrose sighs as she gives the place a quick glance. “Tressa will be so jealous,” she says.

“You think so?” Alfyn asks. “Seems to me she’d be furious, considerin’ all this stuff’s been stolen.”

“I think Primrose is right,” Therion says. “The prices these things are gonna sell for are more than that twerp will ever see in her life.”

“Heh. Sounds like you lot’re friends with a real goody two-shoes,” one of the other attendants says. “But you know better, eh?”

“Sure do,” Therion says, putting a hand on his hip. “You know anything about what’s being sold here today?”

“Depends. Lookin’ for something in particular?”

“It’s called a dragonstone. Big, green, way more valuable than half the worthless garbage being hawked here.”

The man in the mask tilts his head. “Been to yer fair share of markets, I see. In that case, let me give you a tip: give up on that stone. There’s someone else after it here, too, and he’s got a lot of people trippin’ over themselves to get it f’r him. Practically amassed a gods-damned army.”

Therion’s hand drifts to the handle of his dagger. “And you’re just here to give me a friendly warning, because you’re not associated with this guy?”

“Just so. Get yer hand off yer sword, I know it’s there.” The man in the mask sighs. “Thought about tryin’ for it m’self, honestly, but…that was afore I knew who my competition was.”

“What’s this guy’s name?” Therion asks, but before he can get a response, a commotion starts at the entrance to the cave. Three men run past, one carrying a bloody dagger, and another carrying a large green gem. Therion swears under his breath and takes off after them, leaving his three companions scrambling to catch up to him.

“Slowen thy pace!” H’aanit calls after him, but Therion doesn’t even so much as spare her a glance over his shoulder. If he loses sight of these guys, he loses the dragonstone, and while he doesn’t doubt Heathcote would be able to find it again eventually, this is already more of a pain than it ever had to be. He throws the mask off his face - the last thing he needs now is to limit his field of vision, especially with something so impractical - and he does so just in time, because otherwise he’d definitely have missed the sharp right turn the three men make into a hidden corridor.

He hears the other three miss the turn completely, then stop. “We missed something,” Primrose mutters, her voice echoing off the walls. Therion pauses, wonders if he should call out to them, but the sound of the bandits’ footsteps retreating into the distance makes up his mind for him, and he runs after them without alerting anyone.

He berates himself the entire time he runs for hoping that one of them heard his footsteps, even as he does everything he can to make as little noise as possible. It’s better this way, because these men certainly aren’t going to give up without a fight. And while H’aanit and Primrose won’t care, because H’aanit is a huntress and _of course_ Primrose understands the need for an occasional murder or two, especially in times of necessity…

He grits his teeth. He doesn’t want Alfyn to ask if he’s gone and killed someone again. He doesn’t want to disappoint him like that.

He doesn’t want to make the man who’s dedicated his life to helping people watch them die.

The bandits finally stop running, wheezing a little as they catch their breath. “We did it, mates,” says the one with the dragonstone. “Just you wait, this’ll get us noticed right proper, and then it’ll be no more small jobs for the three of us!”

So they’re working on someone’s behalf. It must be the “competition” the man in the mask mentioned earlier…though Therion had been imagining something closer to a bidder with an endless pool of money to bid with, based on the wording. Unless that man had been planning on stealing the dragonstone, too…

He sighs to himself, making a note to ask Heathcote and Cordelia what’s so special about them. Sure, they’re gemstones, which are always popular targets, and the fact that there are four of them certainly appeals to collectors, but this is a lot of effort for a lot of people to go through, especially when he’s certain he saw more valuable items for sale just a few minutes ago.

But that’s something to think about another time. For now, Therion approaches the three of them. “Hey,” he says, casually as he can manage.

There’s a moment of silence as they all register the fact that they’ve been followed before any of them react. “You…what the hell d’you want?” one of them snarls.

“It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?” Therion asks, gesturing to the dragonstone. “You think I’d follow a pack of ugly mugs like yours anywhere for any other reason? Why don’t you just hand it over, nice and easy, and I’ll go?”

“Ugly - ?!”

“You damned fool,” the one holding the dagger spits. “You think you’re gonna leave alive after we’re done with you?”

“Not sure you should be calling anyone a fool when you’re the ones who led someone back to their hideout,” a fourth voice sneers from the shadows. Therion tenses. He hadn’t been able to tell there was anyone else in the corridor, but more than that, the voice is familiar.

“So you’re the boss?” Therion asks, crossing his arms defiantly. “You might wanna look into hiring some better goons. Or better yet, just one, so they don’t leave a trail of idiots following after them. I always did believe in quality over quantity.”

“Funny.” The man the voice belongs to steps out from the shadows. “I used to have a partner who always said the same thing.”

Therion feels the blood drain from his cheeks. The Sunlands are almost unbearably hot, but a chill colder than ice creeps down his spine.

He recognizes that face.

“Darius,” he breathes, an exhalation against his will, jaw tight and eyes narrowing in - what?

Fear? Despair?

Or is this churning in his gut something more akin to homesickness?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here comes a special boy


	13. Reunion

It can’t be more than a few moments that Therion and Darius stare each other down, but it feels like it lasts an hour. “Been a while, hasn’t it, Therion?” Darius asks, more of a swagger in his step now than there ever was in the past - which is saying something, considering how inflated his ego's always been. “Thought the next time I saw you was gonna be in hell, eh?”

Therion grits his teeth. “Yeah, well, I'm not surprised you half-assed it, considering how shoddy you always were.”

Rage flashes in Darius's eyes, and it hurts more than Therion expected it to, because even after all the time he's had to tear up and crumple his feelings and experiences with Darius into a ball small enough to bury and forget, this is only the second time that expression has been directed at _him._ “I ain't the one with the fool's bangle on ‘is arm, now, am I?!” he snarls.

Therion shrugs. “Even though I got caught, at least I got in at all. If you're after the dragonstones, how many flunkies did you send to that manor? How many of them came back failures?” He can't even be sure that Darius knows there's more than one of these things, but the way the fire in his eyes blazes in response tells Therion he's right on the mark. A sick sort of satisfaction settles in his gut, which is really the last thing he should be feeling right now. It's four-on-one, and even though there's no cliff to shove him off of this time, now that he's already survived what should've been a fatal fall, he knows Darius isn't going to take any chances.

“I'd quit while I was ahead if I was you, mate,” Darius says, a dangerous undercurrent in his voice. “You done good survivin’ all this time, and it'd be a shame to throw your life away, yeah?”

Therion laughs harshly. “You seriously think I believe you're gonna let me go? I might've been an idiot all those years I let you jerk me around,” he says, brandishing his sword, “but I've wised up.”

“An’ the ‘pothecaries all say bein’ dropped on your head makes you stupid,” Darius sneers, pointing a dagger at Therion. His flunkies follow his lead, and Therion well and truly has no idea how he's going to do this. Taking out Darius is the first priority, but…

Before he can commit to an action to take, an arrow whizzes over his shoulder and sinks into the neck of one of Darius's men. He looks back over his shoulder to see H'aanit, Primrose, and Alfyn, and clenches his teeth in frustration. The survivors react in alarm, their leader scrambling back and sheathing his dagger. He stalks over to the goon holding the dragonstone and snatches it out of his hands. “You two let ‘im live, an’ I'll make you wish you'd never been born,” he says, heading back down the path from whence he came. “It's been a touchin’ reunion, Therion, it really has, but I'll be takin’ my leave now!”

It takes everything he has not to spit the word “coward” after him as he goes, the only thing stopping him being the knowledge that he'd do the same thing in Darius's position. He swears under his breath, deftly dodging the attacks of the two remaining bandits, burying his sword in one's gut while reaching into his mantle for his dagger. Holding the first man in front of him like a shield, it's easy enough to drive the knife into the second bandit's chest. He doesn't even bother waiting for their death throes to finish or for his companions to catch up before taking off after Darius.

In fact, it'd be best if they never did catch up, at least not until Darius is - is unconscious, at the very least, and Therion can pretend he doesn't know him. He hears H'aanit yell after him, unrestrained anger in her voice, and despite himself, despite the situation, there's a part of him that wants to stop and wait anyway.

But even taking Darius out of the equation, he's going to lose the dragonstone if he does, and he decides that will be his excuse.

He catches up to Darius quicker than either of them expected, but unfortunately, he's met up with another pack of goons, so the surprise on his face gives way to smug satisfaction as they move to prevent Therion from going any further.

“Were you always this fast, partner?” Darius asks, that last word dripping with the same venomous honey it always has, and his sickening grin widens as Therion involuntarily flinches at the word.

“When I don't have to babysit someone slower than me,” Therion says, the words losing their effect somewhat because he's suddenly so thrown he can't look Darius in the eyes, “I'm faster than you could ever be.”

Darius doesn't take the bait this time, not now that he's found something he can use against Therion instead. “That’s prob'ly true, innit. You're still the best damn tea leaf I ever met, _partner,_ bangle an’ all. But once you're dead, I'll make sure no one ever knows who you were. Ain't like anyone knows the names of the stones they use to cobble the streets!”

If Cyrus were here, he'd certainly object and start rattling off ratios and rock names, and that single, completely stupid thought keeps Therion firmly rooted in the moment enough to resist the waves of regret that threaten to topple him. Even now, he's trying his damndest to hate Darius and everything he stands for, but…

“Slate,” Therion says, “with granite to fill the empty spaces.” There’s a bewildered pause from all other parties, so he continues, “That’s what they use to make the roads.”

Darius laughs, putting the dragonstone underneath his cloak. “That's the spirit, mate. Whatever keeps you ‘appy. Kill ‘im, boys.”

“We'll bury ‘im so deep, not even the scavengers will find ‘im,” crows one of his flunkies, earning himself a disgusted look.

“I don't care, I just want ‘im dead!”

Therion tries to slip past Darius's men, but there are too many, and the one who seems to be the leader is clearly more competent than anyone he's encountered today.

“You got a history with the boss, huh?” he asks, and Therion grunts. “I'm curious, but it don't much matter in the end, does it? The name's Gareth.”

“Awful kind of you to give me a name to remember as I make you into cobblestone,” Therion growls.

This time, he's expecting it as his companions finally rush up to meet him, out of breath though they are. Gareth's eyes go wide, clearly not expecting reinforcements. Therion laughs.

“Did you think I really know what kind of rocks they use for the roads? He was right, and it hurts to admit that, but I just needed to buy a little time for him to run his mouth.” Therion glances over his shoulder at H'aanit, who shoots him a most displeased glare, but nocks an arrow in her bow all the same. At this point, it doesn't matter if Alfyn and Primrose are too angry at him to help, because H'aanit is worth ten men alone, but he hears the dancer unsheathe a dagger and the rough scraping sound of an axe handle against leather gloves, and a confident smile streaks across his face for just a moment. “Nice knowing you, Gareth.”

The fight breaks out in an instant, Therion ducking to avoid Gareth's dagger, Gareth narrowly avoiding being shot square between the eyes. H'aanit's arrow instead buries itself in the shoulder of a bandit who'd been aiming for Primrose, who takes advantage of his brief pause to drive her dagger into his throat. She doesn't even flinch as the blood from his neck gushes out onto her arm, and Therion makes a note, as he does on the daily, to never, ever make her angry.

He catches Gareth's dagger with his sword as he swings it at H'aanit, and the huntress mutters “Thanke thee” under her breath as she reaches for another arrow. He hears a grunt of pain on his other side and turns just in time to see Alfyn dropping two of them at once, clotheslining one of them with the long handle of his axe while the sharp edge spills the other's guts. In stark contrast to Primrose, Alfyn seems horrified, as he always does, so Therion kicks Gareth in the stomach, leaving him reeling, and stabs the remaining henchman in the back. H'aanit strikes Gareth in the face with her bow, and he falls to the floor. “Dost thou haven the dragonstone?” she asks, and Therion can't help but sigh in relief as he realizes they must not have caught the exchange he had with Darius.

Gareth laughs. “You're too late. I may not be able to kill you all, but at least I can…” He sinks his dagger into H'aanit's shoulder, moving so suddenly no one has any time to react, and she stumbles backward, groaning in pain. Therion immediately turns his attention to him, but he doesn't get there in time. Primrose is over him, dagger at the ready, cold fury in her eyes, before he can even so much as take a step.

“Primrose,” he says, “wait. We need to find out where Darius - ”

She drives her knife into his gut, twists it, cups his face with her free hand. “Where did he go?” she asks, sweet tone completely out of place.

Gareth wheezes, blood oozing out from between his teeth. “Why don’t you ask him,” he says, tilting his head in Therion’s direction. “From the sounds of it, he knows the boss better than anyone.”

Primrose glances over at Therion, who looks away, suddenly feeling like he’s going to be sick. He didn’t want anyone to know.

He feels three sets of eyes on him, all unwelcome, and pulls his scarf up over his mouth. “Can you find him, Therion?” Primrose asks, her voice gentle, and Therion gives a single nod. “Then I’ll be killing this one now.”

True to her word, she pulls the dagger out of Gareth’s stomach and drives it into his chest, staring unblinkingly at him until the light leaves his eyes. Finally, she stands, wiping her bloody hands on Gareth’s sleeve, and turns to H’aanit, all her cold, steely anger melting into warm concern at once. Alfyn’s already applied a poultice and he’s gently wrapping her shoulder in bandages. “She’ll be just fine, Prim. We’ll have Ophilia look at her when she gets back, see if maybe her magic can get her shoulder back into fightin’ order. If not, she’s outta commission for a while.”

H’aanit grumbles. “I was a fool not to seen the knife. ‘Tis no less than I deserven for mine arrogance.” Primrose shakes her head, settling down next to her and taking her hand, squeezing it whenever Alfyn has to tighten the bandage around her shoulder.

Therion kills time by going through the possessions of Darius’s henchmen, looking for anything that might provide a clue to his whereabouts. He had recognized the gleam in Gareth’s eyes, knows that no matter what Primrose did to him, he wouldn’t have ever given away Darius’s location, because he’s sure he once looked the same way, a long time ago. But nothing he finds is of any use - some stray leaves, rusty daggers, a few miscellaneous gemstones that he pockets to give to Tressa later, since she won’t accept any contributions he steals. Eventually, Alfyn sidles over to him. “You hurt anywhere?” he asks, worry in his voice. Therion shakes his head. “You sure?” A nod. Alfyn pauses, giving him a long, hard look. “You wanna talk about anything?” he asks.

In lieu of an answer, Therion stands, dusts himself off, and starts to head back down the path the four of them came.

When they arrive at the tavern, the other group has already returned, and they seem in high spirits, though the mood dulls somewhat when they see everyone’s grim expressions. “How did it go?” Tressa asks. Therion wordlessly hands her the gemstones and sits.

“A bandit absconded with the dragonstone,” Primrose says, “and H’aanit was injured. But I’m sure it’s just a minor setback. How were things on your end?”

“I met with Erhardt. He’s become quite the hero to this town since leaving Hornburg, and we fought off a tribe of lizardmen together.” Olberic folds his hands on the table. “I had a duel with him after that - we laid our pride, and our pasts, on the line. I won.”

“Is he dead, then?” Primrose asks in a low voice. Olberic shakes his head.

“I could not kill him. Despite what he did to the people of Hornburg…what he did to me…he genuinely wants to protect the people of Wellspring. He is still the righteous man I once knew him to be. And he has given me the name and the location of the man who swayed him to kill His Highness.” Olberic leans back in his chair. “It is he that I must defeat, so that I can overcome my own regrets.”

“We were all so worried when we saw him come out of the lizardmen’s den,” Ophilia says. “He asked us all to wait for him outside, so as to keep the duel secret and sacred between brothers-in-arms…and when he emerged, he was covered in blood…”

“Ophilia cried,” Tressa snickers.

“I was…overcome with many conflicting emotions,” Ophelia retorts, blushing somewhat. “Relief, of course, that Sir Olberic was safe, but a great sadness at the thought that he had killed Sir Erhardt…fear that he had been injured…”

“But Erhardt followed him out, right after. So all’s well that ends well, I guess.” Tressa turns to Therion. “Where’d you get these?”

Therion squares his shoulders and says nothing.

“‘Twas not technically stealing, as the men he taketh the gems from weren dead.” H’aanit gives him a gentle, worried glance. “Leaven him be for now.”

The night continues, and everyone does just that, even if they all spend the night worrying about him and thinking he doesn’t know. Occasionally, he can tell everyone expects him to say something biting, like after Cyrus compliments the barmaid, or Tressa talks about how much she’s going to make selling the things she found in the lizardmen’s den, but he’s not much in the mood for talking. He doesn’t feel like eating or drinking, either, which he knows is bothering Alfyn in particular, so he at least makes efforts to pick at the shared plates, but only when the apothecary is looking. Every time he thinks of something to say, he hears Darius’s voice in the back of his mind, mocking him, feels himself falling hundreds of feet, sees nothing but the vast Cliftlands sky, smells his own blood spattered on the rocks as his bones shatter -

“Therion.” He’s jolted out of his own flashbacks by Olberic, of all people, and he realizes everyone else has left for the night. “You needn’t speak, if you don’t want to, but…” He sighs. “There is something I wish to speak to you about. So if you would listen…”

Therion inclines his head, enough of an indication to continue that Olberic does so without hesitation.

“Pray forgive me for being so forward,” he says, lips pressed together into a narrow line, “but the man who escaped with the dragonstone…Primrose mentioned you knew him. And I know that look in your eyes. They’re the eyes of someone who’s been betrayed - and by someone they thought the world of, no less.” Therion’s entire body bristles as Olberic talks. “It is the same expression that greeted me in the mirror every time I gazed into one for years after Erhardt slew the king. It is the expression that I had every day of my life after the fall of Hornburg, until earlier today.” Olberic pauses, giving Therion a chance to speak, but when he doesn’t take it, he continues. “And it is an expression I have occasionally seen on your face, fleeting though it may be, but never so…”

He sighs, looking for a word. “So strong, and despondent, I suppose. I worry for your sake, Therion, and if my worry is misplaced, then I will happily forget it. And if you ever wish to talk about it…I may not understand the specifics, but I do know what it’s like.” He puts a hand on Therion’s shoulder. “You are not alone. Do not forget this.”

Therion shrinks away from him, and Olberic sighs again. Then, without another word, the warrior heads out the tavern doors, toward the inn. Therion watches him leave, restlessly shuffles in his seat, then throws a mound of leaves on the table and follows him. Olberic seems pleasantly surprised to hear the thief’s footsteps behind him, even stopping to wait for him, and they walk to the inn together in silence.

Cyrus and Alfyn are already asleep by the time they get to the room, so they dress down for bed. Therion settles under the thin blanket and stares at the ceiling until the sun comes up, wondering when it was he’d ever started feeling safe sleeping with strangers in the same room.

Whenever it was, it doesn’t feel safe anymore.

Alfyn and Cyrus both greet him heartily in the morning, just like always, and Therion ignores them, just like always, but this time a worried glance is exchanged between the two of them when he does. He still hasn’t spoken a word since the fight with Gareth, and even the people he’s not especially close to are starting to notice. He feels H’aanit’s gaze on the back of his head as he pulls his scarf up over his mouth to avoid talking to anyone else as they make one last check of their things.

“Where are we goin’ next?” Alfyn asks. H’aanit unfurls the map to consult it.

“My next destination, and Primrose’s, lieth in Stilsnow,” she says, humming thoughtfully to herself. “‘Tis on the other side of the Middlesea, so we can goe in either direction.”

“Can we - ” Tressa pauses, then shuffles her feet. “Never mind.”

“What is it?” Primrose asks encouragingly.

“I just…wanted to see my parents. It’s been months since I left home, and I miss them. So if we go through Rippletide…”

Cyrus points at a spot on the map that’s already been marked. “If we go east, I’ve an errand to run in Stonegard, as well. I believe you’re familiar with the town already, H’aanit?”

“Um,” Ophilia interrupts, raising her hand. “If we do go to Stonegard, the next stop on the Kindling is but a few days away.”

“And Stonegard is where my master lieth, cold as stone…” H'aanit nods. “‘Twould do me some good to seen with mine own eyes that he is still in one piece, and to maken sure that Hagen is well.” She closes the map. “We goe east. First to Stonegard, then to finish the Kindling, and finally to Stilsnow. Any objections?” she asks. When no one says anything, she glances at Therion. “Then, someone keepen thine eyes upon Therion. I feare he will leaven when we least expecte it.”

“On it,” Cyrus, Alfyn, and Olberic all say at the same time. H’aanit chuckles. Therion rolls his eyes.

“Thou art truly loved, Therion,” she says, gently patting him between the shoulderblades. “Thine eyes art dark with despair, but keepen that thought in thy head.” He shoves her hand off of him, and she laughs again. “‘Tis good to seen thee regain thy spirit!”

_That’s the spirit, mate._

Therion clenches his teeth so hard he thinks they might shatter in his jaw. Alfyn carefully takes his hand, and he nearly tugs it out of his grip until he realizes he’s just taking a look at his rash. “Does it hurt?” he asks, voice gentle as always.

“Not really,” Therion says, finally, and he can feel a sense of relief from everyone at the sound of his voice.

Alfyn squeezes his wrist. “So it hurts a little.”

Therion pulls his arm away. This conversation again, like clockwork, every time something bothers him. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

It’s always been true so far, but this time, it might be a lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i might have Committed fuckin hard to writing h'aanit's speech patterns but you will not get the same amount of dedication to darius's cockney slang. the chapters with him in them would take weeks because it's just So Much. i looked.


	14. Stymied

As soon as the travelers arrive in Stonegard, H'aanit makes a beeline for the inn. “I will leaven my things in our room, and goe to my master's side,” she says on the way there. “Dost thou needen my help, Cyrus?” she asks over her shoulder.

“Doubtful. I’m merely here to find a bookbinder. Besides, I’ve already got a willing chaperone.” 

“A bookbinder?” Tressa asks, gazing curiously at the tome in Cyrus's hands. “What're you looking for one of those for?”

Cyrus hands the book over to Tressa, who eagerly begins examining it. “This book is an abridged version of a most valuable article belonging to the library at the Royal Academy. It was bound here…so I am here to find the person responsible. They may have information about the full text.”

“This is kind of creepy,” she says, holding it out to him after flipping through the pages.

“Quite.” Cyrus takes it back from her. “I’ve seen the results of one of the rituals described in it firsthand…it is even more grotesque than you can imagine.” Alfyn and Therion both make difficult expressions at the memory, which only seems to pique Tressa’s interest.

“If even Therion’s grossed out, it _really_ must be bad,” she says.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Therion mutters, turning an irritated gaze toward her.

Before she can answer, H’aanit and Linde blow past them like a hurricane, Primrose following after without a word. Cyrus watches them go, crossing his arms. “And there they go. Well, I’m off to the bookbinder’s. Do try not to get in trouble while I’m away, Therion.”

“Same to you. We don’t need guards hovering over us because you pissed off the wrong guy with your questions.”

“I will be with him,” Olberic says, “so you need not worry.”

“Great! If it’s not harassment we’re getting nailed for, it’s assault.”

Olberic crosses his arms. “Agreeing to the terms of a duel, by definition, means one cannot claim assault when they are defeated.”

This is a disaster waiting to happen, and Therion wants nothing to do with it, so he just waves the two of them off.

And then there were four.

“So,” Ophilia says, adjusting her grip on her lantern, “shall we leave our things at the inn, as well?”

“Yeah, probably. It sure was nice of Olberic and Cyrus to leave their crap for us to carry,” Therion mutters balefully, kicking Cyrus’s bag of books.

“I’ll get it, don’t worry about it.” Alfyn hoists the other men’s luggage like it’s weightless. “Y’know, between the two of ‘em, I’d have thought Olberic would have the heavier bags. Cyrus is stronger than he looks.”

“Fascinating,” replies Therion, tone indicating he doesn’t find it fascinating at all.

“So,” Alfyn says, taking the thief’s pithy comment in stride, “Tressa’s too young for the alehouse, and Ophilia, you don’t drink, right?”

“Ah…I’m not old enough, either…though, I have tried ceremonial wines as part of my duties, and I’ve never really been fond of them.” Ophilia smiles. “But if you want to go to the tavern, please don’t feel like you shouldn’t, on my account…”

Therion suddenly changes directions, holding up a hand in farewell. “Well, now that you’ve said it, you know where to find me.”

“Therion,” Alfyn and Tressa say in unison, but he doesn’t so much as glance over his shoulder at them.

“Sorry, but if I’m gonna waste my time, I’m gonna do it on my own terms.” He hears Alfyn sigh, and he pauses for just a moment, but now that he’s said it, he can’t just change his mind because someone is disappointed.

More than that, he doesn’t want to see that disappointment in the first place. It’s bad enough hearing it.

“We’ll see you later, then,” Alfyn says, a hopeful note in his voice that Therion can’t ignore.

“Yeah. I’ll be around.”

The tavern is just as noisy than it ever is even without his seven companions, but there’s also a calming sense quiet to it - all of that noise and none of it is directed at him. He can tune it out, knowing he won’t have to keep an ear out for someone saying his name. And if he feels a little lonely, well, that’s what the ale is for. It’s a little early to begin drinking, but if he limits himself and takes it slowly, it will be fine.

He wonders what the three of them are talking about. Probably exchanging their life stories - it’s one of Alfyn’s favorite things to do. He’s always happy just to talk, whether it’s to a stranger or to someone he’s known his whole life, and he never hogs the conversation, either. He’s just as much of a listener as he is a chatterbox, and he’s so good at remembering tiny little things that seem so inconsequential to everyone else. Therion barely cares about what he ate for breakfast in the morning enough to remember, but Alfyn doubtless remembers what everyone had, how much, and who didn’t finish, for probably the past week or so.

It must be exhausting, caring so much about other people, but Alfyn never seems tired at all. Maybe that’s just what it’s like when you have a family and childhood friends and a village to grow up in.

Maybe that’s just what it’s like when you don’t have someone like Darius in your life.

Therion growls and sinks into his chair. He’s been doing everything he can to keep himself from thinking about him, but like a moth to a flame, his thoughts always, always come back to his former partner in crime. None of them are fond, if he can help it, though there’s little he can do to keep little pinpricks of nostalgia from coloring some of his memories. The first time they got one over on the Ciannos still makes a swell of pride bloom in his chest, even though the mess of scars on his body and the even bigger mess of his own feelings are direct results of that.

Remembering how he got the scar on his face, too, is only bittersweet at worst.

“Shit,” he mutters to himself. This is the exact opposite of what he’s trying to achieve. He’d been doing so well. He’d barely thought of Darius at all those blissful weeks leading up to the encounter in Wellspring, because for all the paranoia that had nestled in the back of his head as soon as Darius made his intentions clear atop that cliff, Therion has recently been surrounded by people who…

He shakes his head. Thinking that people care about him is the first step to another disaster. Maybe Alfyn does, but - no, he definitely does, but it’s only because he cares about everyone he’s ever met. Alfyn is the kind of idiot who could get attached to a dead man.

Therion regretfully eyes his half-empty mug. This isn’t quite what he’s trying to do, either. If he’s not thinking of Darius, he’s thinking about Alfyn, unable to keep himself from drawing comparisons between the two. He isn’t sure what he’s looking for - reasons that they’re different, or reasons that they’re alike? Reasons for him to stay or reasons to disappear in the middle of the night without so much as a goodbye?

Maybe he shouldn’t have limited himself after all. He doesn’t want to think about any of this.

The tavern door opens, and Therion looks up at it expectantly, but unsurprisingly, it’s a stranger. Of course it’s not Alfyn - why was he even hoping it was him, anyway? He’s with Ophilia and Tressa, and they’re having a great time without him to drag them down. After all, that’s why he’s here - granted, he’s sincerely not interested in whatever girl talk Ophilia and Tressa have doubtless dragged Alfyn into, but he has nothing to contribute, anyway. Someone would ask him about a funny story from his childhood, and he’d spend just a moment or two too long trying to come up with anything at all that he can look back and laugh at, and that would be the end of the conversation.

Really, he’s doing them a favor by being here.

But drinking alone has quickly run its course, so he waits until the barkeep isn't looking and slides his mug over next to a pile of them stacked up by someone too deep in his cups to notice. Like hell he's paying if he didn't even finish one drink.

It occurs to him he has no idea which room everyone is staying, but the innkeeper waves him over and hands him a key as soon as he arrives. “The young lady with the rucksack told me a man who looks like he's…” She glances down at a scrap of parchment. “Eaten nothing but lemons his whole life…would be needing this.”

“She tipped you to say that,” he says, in utter disbelief.

“Quite well,” the innkeeper replies.

He takes the key without another word and heads to the room. It's empty when he arrives, three of the beds occupied by the other men's baggage. The one closest to the door is free, the extra pillow already put on Cyrus’s bed, and one of the blankets has been folded and put on the table.

Did he ever tell Alfyn this was how he preferred his lodgings?

Shaking his head, he heads across the hall and knocks on the door. Ophilia answers it, lighting up when she sees who it is. “Therion! We weren't expecting you until later.”

“Did you miss us?” drawls Tressa from her bed, upon which she's seated with crossed legs.

“I can leave,” he says flatly, and he hears Alfyn get ready to raise an objection even as he walks into the room and settles in a corner.

“So where was I?” Tressa asks.

“You were telling us about Victors’ Hollow,” Ophilia prompts her.

“Right, right! Well, Olberic wanted to enter this tournament, but the qualifiers were already over. So we teamed up with this manager to have him pick fights with guys who looked kinda strong…and it worked. He actually got in! And then he took the whole thing, of course! Oh, it was just amazing watching him fight, you know…I don’t think I could ever be a bookie or anything like that, so I can’t make a career out of it, but I’m glad I got to see a real fighting tournament!” Tressa’s smile is so wide, she’s practically glowing. “I wrote all about it in my journal. And then after that…”

“He went with you to fetch the eldrite,” Ophilia says.

“Yup! Good thing, too, I dunno if I'd have been able to fight off that huge monster by myself…” Tressa shudders just thinking about it. “I asked H'aanit about it later, and she said it sounded like a venomtooth tiger.”

“And you both made it out alive? Shucks, Olberic's amazing.”

“Hey! I fought, too!” Tressa puffs her chest out indignantly.

“What'd you do, throw a rock at it?” Therion asks, earning himself a pillow to the face.

“I'm pretty good with wind magic, you know! Olberic went charging in and I backed him up!” Tressa mimes punching the air, little gusts of wind fluffing her hair as she does. “Oh, you guys haven't really seen him go all out yet, have you?” she asks, glancing between Therion and Alfyn. “He doesn’t even need to try against the monsters we run into, but when it's a real fight…” She leaps off the bed, hoisting an imaginary sword over her head. “ _My blade is unbending!_ ” she yells at the top of her lungs.

“Keep it down,” Therion hisses.

“Did you drink too much?” Ophilia asks, worried, and Therion gives her an exasperated look. Before he can answer, there's a sharp knock on the door, and he gestures to it wordlessly. Ophilia stands and opens it, ready to apologize for the noise, and pauses. “You're back already! Did everything go well?”

Therion cranes his neck to see over Ophilia's shoulder, but the snow leopard slipping by her legs and into the room is enough to give away who it is.

“As well as it could,” Primrose says, following Linde inside, H'aanit right after. They settle down on one bed together, and Alfyn and Therion come to the realization at the same moment that only three of the four show any indication of intent for use. Therion had noted how close the two of them seemed in Wellspring, but even so, he underestimated how close they were. He'll have to congratulate H'aanit on her successful hunt later.

“My master is still stone, of course. But Hagen fareth well, guarding him with all the courage a hunter's companion needeth.” H'aanit sighs. “‘Tis perhaps foolish of me, but I believen that he can hearen me, even in his current state…and even if he cannot, it will be no trouble to tellen him everything again.”

“Cyrus isn't back yet,” Primrose says, looking around. “Unless he’s in the other room?”

“No, it was empty when I got here.” Therion shakes his head. “But Tressa was just going on about how amazing Olberic is, and they left together, so…”

“It's probably fine,” Ophilia finishes. “But I think we should look for them if they're not back by sunset.”

“Good idea,” Primrose says, nodding. “We can check the gaol first, to make sure no one found the professor too abrasive.”

“Primrose, doen thy best not to embolden Therion,” H'aanit says, shaking her head as the thief smirks in agreement.

The hours while away, stories are swapped, and while Therion really only participates by adding off-color commentary to other people's tales, no one bothers him overly much for it. Tressa grumbles that he's accumulating blackmail material at a frightening pace without letting anything slip in return, but that's the closest anyone gets to giving him any crap for holding his cards close to his chest.

But the sun sets, and the owl that everyone suddenly discovers lives in a hole beneath the window of the womens’ room starts to hoot, so the six of them pick themselves up and head off in search of Cyrus and Olberic. A few people in town recall seeing them - after all, Olberic cuts an imposing figure, and Cyrus is infuriatingly handsome, so they're both memorable on their own and even moreso together. They piece together a trail to the bookbinder's, and then to a translator, the man responsible for the abridged version of _From the Far Reaches of Hell._

But the trail goes cold there.

“Do you think they left town?” Therion asks. “They'd probably tell us if they could, but if someone took off running…”

Primrose grimaces. “I wouldn't be surprised. Should we split up?”

“I don't think so. If they're in trouble and only one of us gets wrapped up in it as well…” Ophilia shakes her head. “Then the only thing we would achieve is losing three people.” It's a good point, even though it clearly flies in the face of the instincts of more than one of the people present. Therion and Primrose in particular are disquieted with the decision, accustomed as they are to operating alone.

An unearthly scream cuts through the night all of a sudden, and Linde's hackles rise in response, a growl low in her throat as she swivels her head toward the source. “Leaden the way,” H'aanit mutters, and the six of them follow the leopard toward a mansion in the north part of town. 

“Looks pretty old,” Tressa says, hands on her hips. “And pretty abandoned. Perfect for practicing forbidden magic rituals!”

“And you know that because…what, you have experience with those? I’ve never heard of any forbidden wind magic.” Therion ignores Tressa laughing as he moves forward to pick the lock. He pauses once he realizes it's already open, looking back over at his companions. “I have a bad feeling about this. We need to be careful.”

H'aanit moves to the front of the group, Linde at her heels, and she slowly pushes the door open. Everyone does their best to silence their footsteps, one hand on their weapon of choice.

Nothing awaits them in the entrance hall, but that only serves to increase the nervous energy permeating the air as they continue their intrusion. The winding halls of the manse lend themselves well to an ambush, but no matter how many doors are carefully nudged open, no matter how many sudden turns in the hallway they need to make, it remains still and silent as when they first arrived. Therion finds himself wanting something to appear just to get rid of the suffocating atmosphere. 

“Ugh!” Tressa finally yells, startling everyone else. “This is stupid! There’s six of us, plus a leopard! Let’s just _go!_ ” She runs toward the front, and H’aanit grabs her by the collar, picking her up and forcibly halting her.

“Tressa,” she says firmly as she places her back down. “Thou must not runnen ahead by thyself. I knowe thou art capable on thy own, but splitting up is unwise. ‘Twould ben the same for any of us.” Her lips curl into a small smile. “But thou hast the right of it. Comen, everyone. ‘Tis a wasted venture to ben overly cautious, if the only ones we aren scaring aren ourselves.”

Therion has doubts about that line of logic, always the cautious sort himself, but he can’t deny that the silence was getting oppressive, and as long as at least _one_ of them is looking out for suspicious activity, they probably won’t get caught off-guard. This might be the only thing about working in groups that he can classify as an advantage - working solo, he has to devote 100% of his energy to keeping himself alive, but the other people around him break up the tension just enough for him to still be able to hear his own thoughts.

He hears something else, though, too, as the group continues down the halls - a human voice, contorted in pain. A familiar human voice. Therion’s heart leaps into his throat. That’s Cyrus, and that means -

“This way,” he says, turning a corner and breaking into a run. “Try to keep up!” he calls over his shoulder.

“Do you always end up chasing him?” Primrose asks Alfyn as the group follows after him. Alfyn just laughs in response.

The sound of battle gets louder as they move, until eventually they’re gathered around a set of double doors that shake with the force of the fight they’re containing. H’aanit steels her body, bends her knees, and kicks them open, bow at the ready, Linde already halfway into a pounce. What awaits them isn’t quite what any of them expected - Olberic and Cyrus stand dwarfed by what at first seems to be some sort of monster. But then it looks over at them, and stark realization washes over all of them at once that whatever they’re looking at is - or used to be - a human being.

“What the hell is this,” Therion mutters, but no one has time to answer him, preoccupied as they are with scrambling out of the way of the giant’s massive swing as he moves to attack them. Olberic takes advantage of his momentary distraction to leap forward, brandishing his blade, a crack of thunder sounding as Cyrus brings a bolt of lightning down to follow him with a swing of his arm. He stumbles as he does so, seemingly winded by such a simple gesture, and falls to his knees. “Alfyn,” Therion yells, that nervous feeling pounding in his chest again, “Cyrus is - ”

“On it! H’aanit, I need you to cover me!”

“I am a bit - ” H’aanit grunts, catching the giant’s massive hand with the handle of her axe. “Preoccupied, at the moment - ”

“Close your eyes!” Ophilia yells, the flame in the lantern strapped to her waist burning intensely as she raises her staff. “By the divine will of Aelfric…!” Therion covers his eyes with his forearm just in time; the flash of light Ophilia produces is bright enough to stain his vision red even behind his eyelids. The giant screams in pain, cursing loudly, halting enough for H’aanit to cleanly land a blow with her axe at the same time Olberic drives his sword into his back. Alfyn runs past them both, kneeling by Cyrus, who seems to be having trouble supporting himself.

“You…” the giant snarls, fumbling blindly toward the direction that Olberic’s sword struck from, “you think you can defeat me? A genius of my caliber? I am…unending…I am immortal…! I am…”

“Thou art a beast,” H’aanit spits, “and we hath putten down stronger ones than thee.”

“Headmaster Yvon,” Cyrus gasps, standing despite Alfyn’s exclamations of protest, “was that truly your goal? Immortality?”

“Headmaster?” Tressa repeats incredulously. “Cyrus, this thing is your _boss?_ ”

“Frightful, is it not? This is what those blood-crystals were for…” He leans heavily on Alfyn, one hand holding his own side. “But no matter how much it takes to defeat him, I must…”

“Leave it to everyone else, okay?” Alfyn asks, tone soothing. “Just lie down for a little bit, lemme take a look at that wound. Stay with me, y’hear?”

The apothecary continues talking to keep Cyrus awake as the battle continues, the headmaster’s swings becoming more precise as his vision comes back. But he’s begun to tire, too; blows that once would certainly have ripped any of them open slow to painful but survivable strikes, and Ophilia’s constant flow of healing magic is enough to keep everyone in fighting shape. It’s Tressa who lands the final blow, driving her spear into his chest, grimacing and squirming as he falls over and takes it with him. “How am I supposed to get that back?” she asks herself, prodding his fallen form with her foot.

Not moments after she utters the words does he dissolve into dust, leaving Tressa’s spear, slightly bent but otherwise useable, on the ground. She picks it up, glancing over at Olberic. “I can bend it back into shape,” he says, answering her unasked question. “You’ve gotten much better with the spear since we first met.”

“Well, I’m learning from the best!” she chirps back at him. He gives her a gentle smile as he ruffles her hair.

“How’s Cyrus?” Therion asks, rushing over to Alfyn’s side as casually as he can manage.

“He got hit pretty hard. Broke a couple ribs, but nothing some time won’t fix.” Cyrus hauls himself to his feet, and Alfyn makes a disapproving noise. “Professor! You have to - ”

“I shall not rest until I have determined my pupil is safe,” he says through gritted teeth, and all at once everyone goes quiet, following his gaze. Yvon had understandably captured everyone’s attention, so none of them had noticed the young woman chained to the wall. Olberic puts an arm around Cyrus and helps him over to her side, where he undoes the chains. “Therese,” he says, “are you alright?”

She nods, clinging to him and trembling like a leaf in a strong wind. “Th-Thank you, Professor,” she says, tears in her eyes. “I was…I was so worried, when you…”

He pats her on the back. “I could never have forgiven myself if I had fallen before I could save you.”

“Professor…” She looks up at him, leaning forward somewhat expectantly, and then Cyrus lets go of her, turning to H’aanit. Therese wilts a little, but straightens up a moment later, shaking her head in determination.

Therion contemplates telling her she should just give up, but decides that might only make her try harder, so he lets it be. She’ll figure it out soon enough, he’s sure.

He thinks.

“Thank you all for arriving when you did. I do apologize for not letting you know what had occurred, but it all happened quite suddenly…” Cyrus begins recounting the details of what happened - his meeting with Yvon’s assistant Lucia, the revelation that it was his own employer who had stolen the copy of _From the Far Reaches of Hell,_ and the sickening fact that he intended to use its forbidden knowledge for himself. His entrapment at Yvon’s hands, his rescue at Therese’s, and the subsequent fight for her sake.

It’s one hell of an adventure, and frankly, Therion’s glad he missed almost all of it. It sounds like it was a huge pain. He sighs, barely even registering it when Alfyn puts an arm around his shoulder, like always. “He’s gonna be okay, right?” he asks, glancing at Cyrus.

“He’ll be fine. Olberic doesn’t look too hurt, either. Might have to take another look at H’aanit’s shoulder later, but…” Alfyn pauses, looking down. “Therion.”

“What?”

“You know, you…” He runs his free hand through his ridiculous shock of hair. “Are _you_ gonna be okay?”

“Of course, idiot. I don’t have a scratch on me.”

“That’s not what I…” Alfyn makes a frustrated expression, clapping him on the shoulder as he pulls his arm away. “Just - keep in mind that I like havin’ you around, alright? I was happy to see you show up for a chat.”

Therion pointedly looks at the floor until Alfyn’s attention is elsewhere. It’s only when he’s sure the apothecary is distracted checking on H’aanit’s wounded shoulder that he looks over at him. But he picks a bad time, because Alfyn glances back at him mere moments later, leaving Therion with little recourse but to avert his gaze again, hoping Alfyn didn’t see him but knowing that he did.

On the way back to the inn, while Therese finishes telling Cyrus about everything she knows about Yvon, Therion swallows hard as he approaches the apothecary, holding out his arm. “I forgot to ask you to look at this,” he says, the words rushing out of his mouth.

“Oh. Shucks, I forgot to take a look at it in the first place. Sorry, Therion,” Alfyn says, smiling down at him. His fingers brush against the bangle and Therion jerks his hand away.

“Stop touching that,” he says, scowling.

“Does it still hurt when I do? That’s odd, it shouldn’t now that the swelling’s gone down…” Alfyn mutters quietly to himself as he surveys the rest of Therion’s rash. “I think it’s lookin’ pretty good. How’s it feel?”

“Not bad, but I don’t really know if that means it’s getting better or not.” He clears his throat. “Anyway, that’s why I was looking at you earlier. I didn’t…”

Alfyn laughs. “Therion,” he says, all the fondness in the world concentrated into that one, single word, “I didn’t think it was weird or anything. You’re fine. Just keep usin’ the salve and let me take a look every once in a while.”

Therion nods, pulling his scarf up over his mouth.

The eight of them head to their rooms. Cyrus and Olberic are practically asleep as soon as their heads hit the pillow, and it’s so late at night that they’ll probably have to spend an extra day in Stonegard just to let the two of them get enough rest. No one else has anything to do here, as far as Therion’s concerned, so that means he’s got some more time to waste.

Maybe he’ll waste all of it with everybody else, this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> therese: professor i want you to FUCK me  
> cyrus: f............flunk you.........?????? but therese, you work so hard, you're a model student, i could never possibly


	15. Deception

“How long is the Kindling supposed to take?” Therion asks as the group arrives in Goldshore. “Do you just pray or whatever?”

Ophilia raises her lantern. “It’s a fairly quick process, in which I implore Aelfric to keep the sacred fires burning. We shouldn’t have to spend more than a day or two here, though that will depend on if there’s anything I can do to help the church with…I would hate to impose by interrupting their duties for my own, after all.”

She’s so generous Therion sometimes isn’t quite sure she’s real. “What kind of stuff does the church do, anyway?”

Ophilia smiles, obviously happy to field the question. “We do whatever is asked of us. That can be all manner of things, like caring for the sick and the elderly, providing shelter to those in need, collecting food from those who have more than enough to distribute to those who can’t feed themselves…it’s wonderful work. I think you would be well suited to it, Therion,” she says, earning herself a scowl.

“Something tells me a career criminal isn’t the kind of person they’d want giving them handouts.”

“I’ve found that people aren’t quite as…quick to judge, when they’re in such desperate conditions. They’re simply happy to find people who are willing to help.”

Therion sighs, shaking his head. “And that’s how they get scammed by people looking to make a quick bundle of leaves off of other people’s suffering.”

Ophila is quiet for a moment. “I suppose that’s true. But you wouldn’t do that, so I still think it would be a good experience for you. If you ever decide you want to try it, please let me know.”

Therion shrugs.

As they head toward the inn to book rooms for the night, some gossip seems to catch Alfyn’s attention. Therion’s not paying much attention to it, absorbed as he is in his own thoughts, but it’s enough to leave the apothecary looking concerned. He stalks over to Alfyn’s side, nudging him lightly. “What’s going on?” he asks.

“Sounds like there’s a fever goin’ around. But they said there was another apothecary in town already, so…between the two of us, we’ll have it stamped out in no time!” He flashes Therion an easy smile. “You wouldn’t mind if I went to go find her, would you?”

Therion shakes his head. “Go do your thing, medicine man. Maybe bring back some money for once this time.”

“You know I can’t do that!” Alfyn says, laughing. “Let everyone know to save me a seat just in case, okay?” He waves his goodbye, heading for the center of town.

“Okay.” He waves, then turns to the rest of the group. “Alfyn’s probably not coming back tonight, don’t bother saving a seat for him.”

“He _just_ told you - ” Tressa begins to object, but Therion shakes his head.

“That idiot isn’t gonna be able to leave until everyone in town stops having symptoms, and that’s not happening overnight.”

Cyrus sighs. “Therion is being overly critical, but the fundamentals are correct.”

Therion pauses, then continues, “So you shouldn’t save a seat for me, either. Start a tab, I’ll pay it when we get back.”

He can _feel_ Tressa getting ready to say something smart in response, so he takes off before she can so much as open her mouth. It doesn’t take a lot of time to catch up to Alfyn, who seems genuinely surprised to see him. “Hey!” he says, his entire face lighting up. “Did I forget somethin’?”

“No. But after what happened in Stonegard, H’aanit wants us all traveling in pairs.” That was stupid, and it’s going to backfire as soon as Alfyn talks to H’aanit about a policy she never put in place. Why can’t he just say he’s here because he feels like it? “So here I am,” he finishes flatly. “I can go trade places with someone if you want.”

“No! No, don’t do that.” Alfyn seems embarrassed by his own outburst, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. “It’s been a while since it’s just been the two of us, huh?”

“I guess so. So tell me about this fever.”

Alfyn opens his mouth to reply when a small girl performs the most spectacular faceplant Therion has ever seen, so much so that he winces when he sees it. That must have hurt. Alfyn rushes over to her and patches her up without a moment’s hesitation, then beckons for Therion to follow him.

The little girl, who introduces herself as Ellen, leads the two of them to her home. “Flynn!” she calls, “I brought home a - ”

“Alright,” Alfyn says at the same time, “where’s the patient?”

The woman in the house, presumably Ellen and Flynn’s mother, seems aghast at the intrusion. “Ellen, who is this?” she asks, squinting at Alfyn and then at Therion, who instinctively holds his hand close to his chest underneath his mantle. She’s already suspicious. The last thing Alfyn needs right now is for her to see the bangle on his arm.

“Sorry to barge in, ma’am, but I’m an apothecary, and - ”

“Well,” she interrupts, “you’re certainly not like any apothecary _I’ve_ ever met. And for your information, we are not in need of your services! Flynn has already received medicine for her fever.”

It’s a bad, awkward situation, and Therion’s teeth itch in secondhand embarrassment, but Alfyn is unflappable as always, offering an apologetic gesture. “Sorry ‘bout that, then. It’s just, Ellen was so worried, I thought she hadn’t gotten any treatment. Didn’t mean to bother you any. C’mon, Therion, let’s go. Someone else might need help.”

Therion nods silently and follows him out. As soon as the door closes behind him, Alfyn lets out a heavy sigh. “That was bad,” Therion says, carefully keeping an eye on him for a reaction.

“Yeah,” Alfyn says, “it was.” He seems put out, but not defeated, so Therion decides it’s not worth worrying too much about.

“Look,” Therion starts, but the door opens again behind them, and Ellen trots after them.

“Sorry, Alfyn,” she says. “I didn’t know another pock-a-therry had come to see Flynn.”

“It’s okay,” he says, patting her head. “You were thinkin’ of your sister. You don’t have anything to apologize for. And this way, I can go lookin’ for people who don’t have any medicine yet. It’s all gonna work out just fine. Now why don’t you go back to talk to your sister? I’m sure she’d love some company while she gets better.”

“Yeah!” Ellen nods, smiling up at Alfyn. “Thanks. If you’re still here when she’s out of bed, let’s go gather seashells together!” She runs back inside, and Alfyn chuckles as she goes.

“She’s a good kid. Reminds me a little of Nina.” Alfyn turns back to Therion and seems to think of something, his soft smile ironing out into something a little less soft. “Therion. Can we talk about something?”

“Depends on what that something is,” Therion says, immediately wary.

“You told me once about…that friend of yours, who got sick, but you couldn’t take him to an - ”

Therion cuts him off, his throat tight as he interrupts. “We can’t talk about this.” He knows what Alfyn is getting at. He’s been good about it so far, everyone has, but that doesn’t mean he’s suddenly just magically over everything and ready to talk about Darius just because a little bit of time has passed.

“Right. Okay.” And just like that, Alfyn drops it, though there’s a bitter expression on his face and worry in his eyes that makes Therion’s stomach sink like he’s swallowed a boulder. “But, if you ever decide that we can, I’ll be here to listen, you know.”

Therion doesn’t respond.

“W-Well,” Alfyn says, trying to hide how put out he is behind a smile just a little too bright for the situation, “let’s get goin’. There are people who need help here,” he adds, glancing at Therion as he does. Therion decides to pretend he doesn’t see it.

As they head further into town, the buzzing of a small crowd stops them in their tracks. A woman carrying a satchel similar to Alfyn’s has attracted a flock of onlookers, all thanking her for her help. It doesn’t take a lot to figure out she’s the other apothecary in town. She graciously smiles at the people around her, the very picture of humility as she tells them there’s no need to thank her. Alfyn seems pleased. “Were you worried she’d be a weirdo?” Therion asks.

“No, nothin’ like that. I guess I just…think about what you said, sometimes. About none of the apothecaries carin’ about you or your friend, or…y’know, when _you_ were sick, I saw your scars, and…”

Therion shrugs. “I didn’t go to an apothecary for most of those, anyway.”

“‘Cause you’d already decided none of ‘em would care,” Alfyn says, quietly.

“Yeah.” Therion pauses, realization dawning on him. “That’s what you were worried about.”

Alfyn nods. “As much as I don’t like to admit it, there probably are some in this business for the wrong reasons. So I was a little worried, but it looks like I didn’t need to be.” He grins down at Therion. “Wanna come say hi with me?”

“I don’t have anything better to do,” Therion replies, following Alfyn over.

The woman’s eyes light up in recognition as she sees Alfyn’s satchel. “A colleague?” she guesses.

“Sure am! You’re the one who’s been workin’ on the fever in town? I’ve only heard good things.”

She smiles. “Well, I should hope so. That means my medicine is working.”

“The name’s Alfyn Greengrass, from Clearbrook.”

“Vanessa Hysel.” She reaches out to shake his hand. “I travel, doing what I can to help those in need. Are you situated here in town, or…?”

“Just passin’ through!” Alfyn gestures to Therion. “Though I guess it’s more like I’m followin’ my patient around.”

Vanessa gives Therion a once-over. “Malnutrition?” she guesses, causing Therion to bristle defensively.

“I bet I eat better than any of - ”

Alfyn covers Therion’s mouth with his hand. “He’s in a bit of a foul mood today. Actually, he’s got this condition that isn’t goin’ away, so I’m stayin’ with him for treatment. Hopefully I can cure it someday…on that note,” he continues, “would you mind if I took a quick look at your medicines? I’m just a beginner, so I don’t know if I have much to offer in return, but…”

Vanessa pales slightly and shakes her head. Therion shoves Alfyn’s hand off of his mouth, eyes narrowing in scrutiny. “I’m sorry, but…” She clasps her hands together apologetically. “I do need to keep some secrets to myself…after all, I need to make sure I avoid malnourishment myself.”

Alfyn nods. “No, I get it! Thanks anyway. You’re doin’ real good work here. Lemme know if you need any help.”

Vanessa smiles at him. “Thank you, Alfyn. Always a pleasure to meet someone else in the business.”

“She seemed nice,” Alfyn says as she leaves.

“She seemed suspicious,” Therion says at the exact same time. They both turn to look at each other in disbelief. “You first, medicine man,” he says.

“How’d she seem suspicious? She’s been treatin’ everyone in town, no matter how much they could afford to pay her, and people are healin’ up fit as a fiddle. She’s a great apothecary,” he says, crossing his arms.

“Did you _see_ the look on her face when you asked if you could look at her potions? She’s up to something weird.”

“Do you let other thieves look at your lockpicks?” Alfyn asks incredulously.

“Whether or not she let you see them isn’t the problem. The problem is she looked like a kid who’s just been caught eating sweet rolls before supper when you asked.” He can tell Alfyn isn’t convinced, so he sighs. “Look, if you really think she’s that great, then fine. It’s none of my concern anyway, so…where to next?”

“Maybe we should head up to the church,” Alfyn says thoughtfully. “Even if everyone else ain’t there yet, sometimes they’re takin’ care of the sick, right?”

“Yeah, sometimes. Don’t you think Vanessa would’ve had that idea too, though?” Therion asks him.

“Oh, yeah. Maybe.”

Before they can make a decision one way or another, a second small crowd has formed, this one further toward the entrance of town. And once again, Vanessa Hysel is at the center of it. This time, though, the crowd is desperate, pleading, clamoring for her attention. “Please cure my daughter,” begs an elderly man. “She’s all I have left…”

“I do have the cure for the illness you’re describing,” Vanessa says, withdrawing a vial from her satchel. “Unfortunately, this potion is made with rare ingredients, that I must put my life at stake to find…I cannot offer it at the same low price as my first medicine.”

“Okay, that’s reasonable,” Therion murmurs, Alfyn nodding in agreement. He would never do it himself, Therion’s sure, but it’s not always evil to ask for recompense for one’s services, especially if they’re dangerous.

When she names the price, however, both Therion and Alfyn are stunned at the sheer size of the number of leaves she’s asking for. Therion sees Ellen and Flynn’s mother on the edge of the crowd and nudges Alfyn’s side with his elbow, pointing her out.

He’s not surprised when Vanessa turns down her plaintive plea, but when he looks at Alfyn, the apothecary’s practically shaking with rage. This might be the first time he’s ever seen him truly angry. “Alfyn,” he says softly, but he doesn’t get a response, and he practically has to run to keep up with his long strides as he bounds over to the despondent woman.

“I might not be as good as Vanessa,” he says, plaintively, “but please let me look at Flynn. I wanna help her. Please.”

Therion takes a half-step forward. “He’s been looking after me for a long time now, and he won’t let me pay him even when I try. It’s worth a shot.”

After a moment of thought, she nods and leads them back to her home. “I don’t know what happened,” she says, trying not to cry. “The fever vanished almost like it was never there, and then…she just began coughing, and it won’t let up…s-she can’t breathe.”

Therion doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know if there’s anything he _can_ do, so he watches helplessly as Alfyn assesses Flynn, as he finds the bottle of medicine that Vanessa gave her for the fever, and as that unfiltered, raw anger blooms in his eyes again when he realizes what she’s been doing.

Normally, he’d delight in being right about Vanessa, but he hates it, if this is what it’s doing to Alfyn.

“We’re gonna go talk to her,” Alfyn says, not even giving Therion a choice in the matter. “C’mon.”

“Shouldn’t we go get - ”

“I’m not lettin’ her get away with this for another damn second,” Alfyn growls, and Therion snaps his mouth closed, following him closely. “There should be a cavern nearby where the moss she’s usin’ grows.”

“Wait.” When Alfyn makes no move to do so, Therion dashes forward, putting himself in front of him, forcing him to stop. “I said _wait,_ medicine man. What are you gonna do when we get there?” Alfyn averts his gaze, and Therion leans forward, pressing his index finger against his chest accusingly. “Cool your damn head.”

“How am I supposed to do that when she’s lettin’ people die, Therion? When she’s lettin’ _kids_ die?!”

“Hell if I know, but you’d better figure it out between here and that cavern, because if you kill her, it’s gonna destroy you!” Therion grits his teeth. “If you’re that hellbent on - on _permanently_ solving the problem, then you need to tell me where to go so I can take care of it, but you…you can’t do it.” He lowers his hand. “Your hands are for helping people, so let me take care of the nasty business.”

Alfyn stares at him, eyes wide and face pale, nodding hollowly, like he hasn’t heard a thing Therion just said. But his subdued silence on the way to the cavern is enough to say everything: that he heard every word, and that he’s too busy weighing Vanessa’s life in his hands to say much of anything.

When they arrive at the entrance to the cavern, Therion turns to him expectantly. Alfyn hesitates, breath catching in his throat, before he finally murmurs, “Don’t kill her.”

“And you won’t either,” Therion adds, boring a hole into Alfyn’s forehead with his eyes.

“I won’t either,” he confirms.

The goons Vanessa’s hired to help her harvest moss go down fairly quickly, and they find Vanessa herself at the center of the cavern, surveying her spoils. She hears them approach and turns, expecting to see her hired men, and rage flashes across her face once she sees Alfyn and Therion. “Well, look who it is! The goody-two-shoes apothecary and his little pet patient,” she hisses. “You’re here to ruin everything for me, no doubt.”

“That’s the plan,” Therion says, drawing his sword. “We already took out your men, so you might want to surrender and make this easy on yourself.”

Vanessa laughs. “I’ve got too much going on here to give up now!” She lunges at Therion, vials of poison in her hands, the acrid smell of potions permeating the area as they break. He isn’t sure what any of them are supposed to do, so he avoids the vials themselves, but one of the resulting puddles on the ground starts to spew noxious smoke. It reminds him of a poison Alfyn’s used on monsters a few times, and if he remembers correctly, it doesn’t travel very far in the air, so he puts just enough distance between him and the cloud of gas to keep on the offensive with Vanessa. His quick maneuvering also puts her right between him and Alfyn, which means she’s got assaults from two sides to deal with. Just because Therion isn’t going to kill her doesn’t mean he can’t rough her up, after all.

But the fight is over before it can even begin, because while she’s focused on Therion, Alfyn grabs her by the waist from behind and jabs something into her neck. She utters a string of curses and falls silent, then dangles limply from his arms.

“Alfyn,” Therion chokes, but Alfyn lowers her to the ground and beckons him over.

“She’s still alive,” he says. “Sometimes, for all the effort we go through, plants are still better at makin’ potions than we are.” He opens his palm, revealing a small cluster of thorns. “Like sleeping draughts, for instance.”

Therion sighs in relief. “You had me worried for a minute, there,” he says, trying to play it off.

Alfyn stares down at Vanessa. “I had me worried for a minute, there, too,” he says quietly. “If you hadn’t been here to talk me down, I…” He looks over at Therion. “C’mere a minute, will you?”

“Why?” Therion asks, even as he does just as Alfyn asked. “It’s not like you need help carrying - ”

He stops talking abruptly, startled into silence by the feeling of Alfyn’s arms around him. He’s never been held like this before - he’s never been held at all, really - and he has no idea what to do, other than awkwardly pat Alfyn on the back. “Thank you, Therion,” Alfyn whispers, burying his face in the crook of the thief’s neck. “I was just so…I’m still just…so angry. At her, and at…at a lot of people, right now.”

“At me?” Therion asks, voice small.

“What? Shucks, no, Therion, not at you. I could never be mad at you, ‘specially after you kept me from doin’ something I couldn’t take back today. But…” He lifts his head, looking Therion in the eyes. “You told me we can’t talk about it, so I won’t.”

Therion pauses, frowning. “Darius isn’t a lot of people,” he says eventually. It’s not what he wants to say, and it’s not what he _should_ say, but it’s the only thing that he can.

“Therion,” Alfyn begins, but Therion slips out of his arms, pointing at Vanessa.

“When is she going to wake up?” he asks. “We should probably be out of here before she does.”

“Oh, right. She should be out awhile yet, so we should tell the guards about her when we get back. Some time behind bars should at least encourage her to rethink her career. And I gotta brew up cures for everybody…”

There’s still some remaining tension between the two of them as they head back to town. Most of it is from Therion, as usual. And it’s not because he doesn’t want to tell Alfyn about Darius - on the contrary, it’s because having someone to spill his guts to might finally get rid of the feeling in his head like his brain is being pounded into sheet metal by the constant thoughts of his former partner in crime, but that would mean telling him all about the horrible details of the terrible things he’s done, and maybe it’s selfish of him, but he doesn’t want Alfyn to hate him.

Anyone else, they’re fine. He’s a thief, a criminal, no more than that, and he doesn’t expect to be treated as anything more. Oftentimes, he expects to be treated as less than even that. He’s used to it. But it would hurt, coming from Alfyn.

They meet up with most of the rest of the group on their way back to town. Therion frowns. “What are you guys all doing out here? Does the Kindling make you come all the…”

He pauses, realizing what’s wrong before anyone has even said anything. The grim expressions on everyone’s faces, the fact that they’re out here in the first place, the suspicious absence of one person in particular, they should have all tipped him off.

“Boys,” Primrose says, voice calm, the only indication that she’s nervous is the way her eyes dart around her surroundings.

“Have either of you seen Ophilia?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: i should address the tension building between therion and alfyn sometime  
> me @ me: yea but you should only address it to make it stronger  
> me: genius


	16. Standards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> or, "therion finally realizes he has feelings"

The return to Goldshore is a mess, seven people practically tripping over themselves trying to be the first ones back. “Why didn’t someone go with her?” Alfyn asks, clearly in a panic. “I thought we were all supposed to work in pairs?”

“That’s a good idea, we should start doing that in the future,” Primrose says, and Therion just barely manages to look away before Alfyn shoots him an accusatory glance.

“The bishop said she went out in search of his daughter, who’s being held hostage,” Olberic says, “but we could not find her when we arrived at the location he told us she would be.”

“Sounds like we have a bishop to interrogate,” Therion mutters darkly.

“I don’t think so,” Primrose says, falling into step next to him. “We either missed her on the way there or the way back. That man…” She pauses. “He said he meant no harm to Ophilia, and I’d like to believe him. Of course, that doesn’t mean she hasn’t found herself in harm’s way regardless…”

“We shall splitten our group in twain when we arriven,” H’aanit interrupts. “Wouldst thou liken the chance for an interrogation, should it ben necessary?” she asks Therion, who nods wordlessly. “Then the church is thine.”

“I’ll come with you,” Alfyn adds before anyone else can so much as say anything. “We’re a pretty good team, you know,” he says defensively as Primrose gives him a sly look over Therion’s shoulder.

“I didn’t say anything,” she replies, shrugging.

The seven of them break off into not two, but three groups upon their return, each heading in different directions: H’aanit, Primrose, and Tressa go to the center of town, while Olberic and Cyrus make for the entrance, just in case anyone has seen Ophilia leaving or returning. When Alfyn and Therion arrive at the church, the bishop is, according to the acolytes going about their duties, occupied with something important.

“I knew it,” Therion grumbles. “All right, let’s find this bastard. Then once we find out where Ophilia is, we’ll - ”

“Excuse me,” a nun interrupts. “Are you looking for Sister Ophilia?”

“Who’s asking?” Therion asks, a surly expression on his face, so Alfyn steps in, waving his hands.

“Yeah, we’re friends of hers! She up and disappeared, so we’ve been lookin’ for her…”

The sister gives them a sympathetic, sad kind of smile, and the worry buzzing in the back of Therion’s brain grows to a loud, constant screech. “Where is she?” he asks. In response, she simply asks the two of them to follow her, leading them down the hall to a small bedroom.

Inside is Ophilia, sitting upright in bed, eyes half-lidded and fighting off sleep. “Shucks,” Alfyn mutters bitterly under his breath. “She looks like she’s been drugged.”

“That seems to be the case,” says a man in an intricate robe - Therion can only assume he’s the bishop. “I found her unconscious on the floor, so I brought her here to recover.”

“And her lantern?” Therion asks, not bothering to pretend its absence isn’t a big deal. There’s no point, when the person he’s speaking to understands its importance better than Therion himself.

The bishop pauses, a rueful expression on his face. “I didn’t see it anywhere. She had it earlier, and graciously performed the Kindling for us, but now…she’s only just woken up, so she may know what happened to it, but I have no answers for you.”

Therion glances over at her. “Ophilia.”

She turns her head to look at him. “Therion?” she mumbles, as though she’s just realized there are other people in the room with her. “Where am I?”

“The church in Goldshore. Here, drink this,” Alfyn says, handing her a vial. “I don’t know what you were drugged with, so I don’t have a treatment, exactly, but this’ll make you feel a little more alert.”

“Oh…thank you. You’re too kind.” Ophilia’s voice is always quiet, but there’s an empty echo to it that’s never been there before, and it makes Therion’s stomach twist. “Is everyone alright…? The bishop and his daughter…?”

“We are fine, Sister Ophilia,” the bishop says, and relief breaks through the tired haze on Ophilia’s face.

“Thank goodness…”

“What happened?” Alfyn asks.

“After…” She carefully drinks from the vial he gave her, hands trembling. “After I returned, I encountered Mattias - ”

“The guy you were tellin’ me about before,” Alfyn says, more for Therion’s benefit than anything else.

“Yes.” She nods. “And…my sister, Lianna.”

“Are they in trouble?” Alfyn’s voice is gentle, which only makes the pained expression on Ophilia’s face all the more out of place.

“I…” She falls silent, turning the vial in her hands. There’s a haunted look in her eyes, and the trembling in her hands intensifies. She drops the vial in her lap, half-empty, and weakly picks it up to bring it back to her lips.

Therion feels sick. He realizes, all of a sudden, exactly what Olberic meant when he took him aside and told him he recognized the look in his eyes.

“They are the trouble,” he says, finishing her reply for her. Ophilia looks up at him, tears welling up in the corners of her eyes, and nods.

“What?” Alfyn looks from Ophilia to Therion and back again. “Your own sister…?”

Ophilia nods again, biting back a sob, covering her eyes with the palms of her hands. “I’m sorry. Please…I need a moment, I…”

“I’m going to go get everyone else,” Therion says hollowly, turning around and leaving before Alfyn can say anything. This is another opportunity he would’ve relished just a few months ago, but all it does is put salt in a wound he has no idea how to fix. He thought he’d be numb to this kind of pain after feeling it firsthand - after learning in childhood just how cruel the world can be, and after experiencing a betrayal at the hands of someone he thought he could depend on - and it’s not quite the same, seeing other people go through it too. It isn’t as sharp, it doesn’t cut as deep. But it aches in ways he doesn’t expect, in places he never thought he’d feel it.

He doesn’t like it.

He runs into the women first. Tressa and Primrose make for the church immediately, but H’aanit hangs back, accompanying Therion on his search for Cyrus and Olberic. “How doth Ophilia faren?” she asks.

“Not great. She was drugged, and the Sacred Flame’s been stolen.”

H’aanit frowns. “Thou art correct. That is…not great.”

The corners of Therion’s mouth twitch upward despite himself. It’s so strange to hear that coming from H’aanit. “And it seems like it’s her sister that did it.”

“Doth she knowen why?”

Therion shrugs. “I left before I could ask. I figured there were - you know. People who could help her more than I can.”

“Perhaps.” H’aanit pauses to adjust one of her greaves. “Or perhaps not. ‘Tis not my place to maken any guesses about thy motives, in either case.”

“You know the only possible conclusion I can come to when you say something like that is that you _are_ making guesses about my motives, right?” Therion asks sourly.

H’aanit shrugs. “Then it seemeth we are both guessing.”

“You’re so annoying,” he mutters.

Cyrus and Olberic are still near the entrance to town, dutifully questioning people coming in or going out about whether they’ve seen anyone matching Ophilia’s description. A quick word with Therion and H’aanit has them leave their posts and follow them back to the church. When they arrive, Ophilia’s mostly shaken off the drug, alert and on her feet. The first thing she does when everyone has gathered together is apologize, bowing her head.

“I should have gone to get one of you, but time was of the essence. Even now, I have no regrets about that - when I arrived, the kidnappers were already thinking of killing her, and if I had gotten there even a few moments later, I’m certain they would have done just that.” She tucks her hair behind her ear, a steely look of determination in her eyes. “So I am sorry for worrying you, but…”

“You don’t have anything to apologize for, Ophilia. Just don’t do it again,” Primrose says. “We’ll have to make sure none of us is on our own from now on.” H’aanit nods behind her. “Now, what about the Sacred Flame?”

Ophilia bites her lip. “I’ve been told that…there is a village called Wispermill that worships a so-called Savior. I believe that’s where Lianna and Mattias have gone with the Flame…after all, that is what Mattias has taken to calling himself.”

“That’s quite far from here,” Cyrus mutters.

“You needn’t worry about it. I will go myself, and - ”

“No.” Therion doesn’t realize until seven people are staring at him that he’s the first to have spoken up, and he shrinks away and says nothing else, looking toward the floor.

“Therion’s right,” Tressa says, crossing her arms. “I’ll go with you, Fili. We’ll…”

“All of us will goe,” H’aanit interrupts. “Wispermill is in the Flatlands. We must passen the road that leadeth to it on our way to Stilsnow, so it maketh little sense to walken past it if we haven business there.”

“Are you sure? You keep puttin’ off your own problems…” Alfyn seems hesitant, but H’aanit shakes her head.

“Where can my master runnen off to?” she asks quietly, a bitter note in her voice. “The Sacred Flame is too precious to too many. We must doe what we can to finden it.”

Primrose nods. “I don’t mind letting my own business wait a little longer, either. This is important. We’ll be with you every step of the way, Ophilia.”

Ophilia has been listening quietly, and when Primrose puts a gentle hand on her shoulder, she breaks down into tears, offering no resistance when the dancer gently gathers her into her arms for a hug. “Thank you so much, everyone,” she chokes out between sobs. “I’m so sorry…to drag you into this…”

“Thou still hast nothing thou needest ben sorry for,” H’aanit says. “We shall departen on the morrow.” She turns to the bishop. “Thanke thee for seeing to her care while we were absent. We are in thy debt.”

“No, think nothing of it,” he says. “I was merely trying to repay the debt I owed to her in the first place. In fact, why don’t you stay here tonight? As you can see, we have more than enough spare beds for the eight of you, and you needn’t worry about feeding yourselves tonight either.”

Ophilia adamantly shakes her head. “There’s a plague in this town, isn’t there? Those beds should be given to the sick.”

“Oh, that’s right. I heard something about that, too. Alfyn, what are you…” Primrose stops mid-sentence, fixing Alfyn with one of her trademark piercing gazes. “Something happened, didn’t it? While you and Therion were gone.”

“Yeah, but it’s not really that important.” Alfyn scratches the back of his head. “We took care of all the big stuff. All that’s left is cleanin’ up the mess, I guess.”

“And what kind of mess would that be?”

Alfyn pauses, then stands abruptly. “Well, c’mon, Therion. I’m gonna go check on Flynn.”

Therion silently follows him out. Everyone is used to being blown off when he does it, but Alfyn clamming up is a pretty startling turn of events, all things considered.

“Alright, what’s the deal, medicine man?” Therion asks. “You don’t need me to check up on some kid.”

“Sure I do. We’re gonna be workin’ in pairs from now on, remember? So you don’t even have to lie about it anymore.”

Therion winces. “Yeah, that wasn’t one of my better ones.”

“It worked out fine in the end, so no harm done,” Alfyn says, putting an arm around his shoulder. Therion gives an exaggerated, put-upon sigh, but lets it stay for now. “I just…y’know, after seein’ Ophilia like that, I don’t want anyone to worry about me. She’s the one who needs all that help right now. I mean…” He gives Therion a lopsided, warm smile. “I had someone to keep me level-headed.” The smile fades just as quickly as it had arrived. “But she had to go through her sister betrayin’ her all by herself…”

“Well, leaving abruptly without saying anything isn’t going to make people worry any less,” Therion says flatly, ignoring the urge to smile back at him. “I’m sure they’re already trying to figure out what happened.”

“Probably,” Alfyn laughs. “That’s what happens every time you leave in a huff, too.”

“Ugh. I figured, but you guys have really got to come up with better things to worry about.”

“Nothin’ better to worry about than someone you care for,” Alfyn says. “Because we all do, y’know. Care for you.”

“Ophilia’s the one who needs that kind of stuff right now,” Therion says mildly, toying with the end of his scarf like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

Alfyn sighs, lets his arm drop from around his shoulders. “So surly.”

“That’s me.”

He waits outside while Alfyn checks on Flynn. While he’s sure the girls’ mother doesn’t have any more qualms about the backwoods apothecary she’d once thrown out of her home anymore, it still wouldn’t exactly leave a great impression if she saw the bangle on Therion’s arm, especially now that Vanessa’s been taken into custody and word has begun to spread about just what she’s done. In some ways, that’s convenient - between the six of them, one of the other travelers is sure to hear about it and put two and two together. That means less time spent interrogating Alfyn and more time spent supporting Ophilia while she pieces her heart back together after her sister smashed it.

He stares at the sky while he waits, watches the sun set behind the buildings that pepper the horizon, hears the warm laughter of two small girls and the apothecary who’s the reason they’re still laughing at all. He tries to pretend he doesn’t wish he belonged in there with them.

The stars have started to come out by the time Alfyn leaves the house, giving Therion a quick grin as closes the door behind him. They fall into pace beside one another as they head for the inn. Therion can feel Alfyn’s eyes on him from time to time, but whenever it looks like he wants to say something, he swallows his words. Eventually he stops, frustrated, and glares up at Alfyn. “Spit it out,” he says curtly, and Alfyn sheepishly rubs his jaw.

“Was I that obvious?” he asks. Therion nods. “Shucks. I was hopin’ you’d stay up a little bit with me tonight, at the tavern.”

“What for?” Therion asks.

“What _for?_ ” Alfyn repeats incredulously. “To thank you. Maybe buy you a drink, or something to eat.”

Therion hesitates. “You don’t have to do that, you know.”

“I know! But I want to. If you don’t, then that’s fine, but…” He shrugs. “I ain’t got anything better to do tonight.”

“You don’t have to sleep?” Therion asks, snorting, but when Alfyn just sort of gives a half-hearted chuckle in response, he regrets even asking. Of course someone like Alfyn would have trouble sleeping after a day like today. “Yeah,” he says, before he can stop himself. “I’ll kill some time with you tonight.”

Alfyn gives him a bright, sunny smile, and Therion avoids eye contact all the way to the tavern.

Once they arrive, the first thing Alfyn does is order two drinks, then drags Therion over to a small table for two. Predictably, the first words out of his mouth are for someone else’s sake. “Do you think Ophilia’s gonna be alright?” he asks, nervously fiddling with the silverware.

“Probably. She’s stronger than she looks.” Therion picks up his mug of ale, frowning at it. “But I’ve never really had a family, so I don’t know.”

“Never?”

Therion shakes his head. “I obviously had parents, at some point. But…well, you don’t end up in the local gaol at 12 years old if they’re around to take care of you.” He sighs, props his elbow on the table to rest his head on his hand. “And I never knew if they had family I didn’t know about. There’s not much point to looking, either. I have nothing to go on. No last name, nothing I can remember about them…” He shrugs. “Well, it doesn’t matter. I’ve gotten this far without them, and it’s around now that people fly the coop anyway.”

“You ever given any thought to startin’ your own family?” Alfyn asks.

“Nope.” The answer comes easily, without so much as a pause. “I’m not interested in being a father, and I wouldn’t be any good at it anyway.”

“What about gettin’ married?”

Therion pauses. He’s not opposed to the idea, but he’s never met anyone he’s been attracted to like that. The person he’s had the closest attachment to is Darius, and he’s certainly not what Therion would call husband material. If he was going to marry someone, they’d have to be a saint, no doubt about it. Patient, kind, understanding, willing to back off when he needs it, because gods know he does - the kind of person who can stick around and love him even when he’s at his worst. The only person he can think of who even comes close to those criteria is…

“No,” he says, more to himself than to Alfyn.

“The lone wolf type through and through, huh?” Alfyn asks. “You never get lonely?”

“Not really.”

Alfyn gives him a sad smile. “So you’re a little lonely.”

Therion shrugs as aggressively as he can manage. “Maybe. But that’s fine. The last time I trusted someone, I…” He trails off. “All you need to know is I learned it’s a bad idea.”

Alfyn’s expression is complicated as he mulls over his response. In the end, he opts to change the subject entirely, though the questions he wants to ask hang thick in the air between them like smog. “You wanna split an apple pie with me?”

“What, like the whole thing? I can’t put food away like you do.”

“You can save the rest for later, or you could give it to Tressa or somethin’. It just seemed like you liked it, back in Clearbrook.”

“Yeah, I did.” Therion puts down his empty mug. “If you’re ordering one, then I’ll help you eat it, I guess.”

“Oh, good. I already asked ‘em to bring one, while I was ordering drinks.”

Therion laughs, shaking his head. “Alright, your turn, medicine man. You ever think about settling down and starting a family?”

“I’d like to eventually!” Alfyn perks up considerably at the thought of his own prospects, and Therion can’t say he blames him for it - he’s doing his best to talk about anything at all, but it hasn’t been a cheerful conversation so far. “I’m a little sweet on someone right now, but I don’t know if it’s gonna work out, so I’m tryin’ not to get my hopes up.”

Therion raises his eyebrows and waits for Alfyn to continue, but apparently he’s done with that line of thought. “You’re not gonna tell me who it is?”

“Nope. Not that I don’t trust you to keep a secret, but you don’t strike me as the kind of person who’s into gossip.” And just like that, Alfyn’s tidily won this part of the conversation, because now if Therion continues to pry it’s the same thing as admitting he’s on the same level as gossip hounds like Tressa and Alfyn himself. The smirk on the apothecary’s face means he _knows_ it, too, the bastard.

“You’re right,” Therion says, leaning back in his chair. “I couldn’t care less. Good call.”

But the more he thinks about it, the more he cares. Alfyn cares so much about everyone he’s ever met, so what are his criteria? His standards are pretty low, right? They must be.

And it doesn’t mean anything at all that Therion’s sitting here trying to figure it out, because even if his standards _are_ low, there’s no way they’re _that_ low. Not that it would matter either way.

Fortunately, a member of the tavern staff arrives with an apple pie, still warm from the oven, and puts it on the table before he can give it any further thought, and the two of them eat in silence.

“I’m not the best at this, am I,” Therion mumbles between mouthfuls. “You should’ve asked someone else to keep you company.”

Alfyn shakes his head. “You’re the only person I wanted to ask, Therion.”

Again, Therion waits for him to elaborate, but again, he doesn’t. In fact, it’s the last thing they say to each other until they both put their forks down. There’s one slice of pie left, which Therion wraps neatly in a napkin that he’s sure the tavern staff won’t miss. He’ll offer it to Ophilia tomorrow - it’s too late to do it now.

Alfyn stands up and stretches. “Wanna call it a night?” he asks. “I’m finally feelin’ like I’ll be able to sleep, myself, so…”

“Sure, let’s go.” Therion slips out of his seat. “You’re gonna regret this in the morning, though.”

Alfyn laughs. “Nah. I got to spend time with you, so no matter how tired I am, I’m not gonna regret a thing.”

Therion puts a fistful of leaves on the table and lowers his head, making a beeline for the tavern door. Alfyn’s such an idiot. How can he say things like that and mean them? Maybe his standards really are that low.

He catches himself hoping they are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this one's a little later than usual. i got real fuckin sick, but i'm over that now...and ready to jump back into producing alfion content


	17. Family

The general mood in Wispermill, Therion decides, is “off.”

Nobody they’d asked on the way there had had much information on the town and their Savior, or if they did Ophilia’s telltale cleric robes sealed their lips tighter than Therion’s coinpurse strings, and so none of them had been sure what to expect. But he can tell, looking at the seven grim expressions on the faces of his companions, that none of them expected… _this._ The air itself is oppressive, to say nothing of the townsfolk themselves, who seem suspicious at best and downright hostile at worst.

For the first time, Therion’s suggestion to camp rather than stay at the inn isn't unanimously voted down. Everyone is in favor. While they set up a place to sleep on the outskirts of town, half of their group volunteers to go looking for the ember of the Sacred Flame: Ophilia, of course, Tressa, Primrose, and Cyrus. Olberic and Alfyn stay at camp to set up the two large tents they carry for such occasions, while H'aanit and Therion head out together to hunt. Not that Therion is much help in that regard - he’s mostly there to accompany H'aanit after the group’s collective decision to work in pairs.

“I hath an awful feeling about this place,” she says, carefully cutting a branch in front of her so it doesn't whack Therion as they move. “There is an air of…” She hesitates. “‘Tis as though we aren prey.”

“Well, that’s why we're out here,” Therion says, “because you're not the only one with a bad feeling about it.”

“But what of the group that ventureth into town?”

“What about them? They can handle themselves.” He pauses. “Are you worried about Primrose?”

H'aanit sighs and stops walking, hunkering down on a stump. “I am worried about everyone, but…yes, Primrose is at the forefront of mine thoughts.”

“She's probably the best at fighting out of everyone here, except you and Olberic. She'll be fine.” He mimes stabbing an invisible man. H'aanit smiles, just a little, in that way that makes her beautiful and handsome at the same time.

“Thou art correct, but even so, I wishe to followen them as soon as we hath acquired food for the night. Thou feelest the same, dost thou not?”

Therion shrugs. “Maybe. I don’t really care about anyone the way you care about Primrose, so…”

H'aanit furrows her brows, confused. “Truly?”

“Uh, yeah.” Therion gives her an accusatory stare. “What’s with that reaction?”

H'aanit shrugs right back at him, not responding.

“Anyway,” Therion continues, “they can all handle themselves. Even Tressa and Ophilia are tougher than they look.”

But when they return to camp, Tressa and Ophilia have yet to return, and Cyrus and Primrose can’t say for sure where they went. They had split up into two groups of two, and the meeting time came and went, so here they are to fetch everyone else. Therion doesn’t like this new trend of Ophilia going missing.

Neither does anyone else, if the way they gather their things without a moment's hesitation is any indication.

When they reach Wispermill, Ophilia is in the center of town, headed for the entrance and dragging Tressa by the hand, robes dirty and panic scrawled over her face. “Oh, thank Aelfric!” she cries, stumbling to a halt. “Lianna…she let us out, but we need to stop her!”

She explains the situation on the way - she was duped by a villager and jailed with Tressa, but her sister, fervently believing Mattias could somehow revive their dead father, freed them both from the cell. It's a stupid move, Therion thinks, but one that works in their favor. They might not have found Ophilia until it was too late otherwise.

He's about to voice this thought, but Ophilia hasn’t been able to keep from the verge of tears the entire time, so he keeps any disparaging comments about Lianna to himself for the time being. If this were Therion's theoretical sister, he'd simply cut ties with her here - follow her, stop whatever ritual she's agreed to help with, and wash his hands of her. It's no less than traitors deserve. But Ophilia moves with determination and purpose, motivated by the desire to reunite with Lianna on the same common ground they once shared.

He doesn't get it. She has to rub her eyes every few minutes to keep from crying, and her voice is raspy from the sobs that tear through it. It's the same kind of rough, painful tone his own voice had, in the days after Darius betrayed him. Lianna is Ophilia's whole world, just as Darius had been his, and…

And still, the fire in her eyes burns stronger than even the ember ever did, an inextinguishable warmth capable of withstanding even the tears she chokes back.

He doesn't get it.

What makes her so much stronger than he's ever been?

H'aanit falls into step beside him, gently nudging his shoulder. “A leaf for thine thoughts,” she says, literally holding one out to him. That's not how it works, but he takes it anyway, tucking it away into his coinpurse.

“I'm not thinking about anything in particular,” he lies.

“I hath paid thee, and thou wilst answeren me.”

Therion sighs. “You know that's just an expression, right? You can't go around bribing people to talk to you.”

“Thou seemest to responden well to bribes, regardless,” H'aanit says, frowning at him. “Art thou so determined to avoiden me?”

“Right now I'm _avoidening_ everybody,” he hisses.

H'aanit crosses her arms. “If thou wishest to turn back, no one will stoppen thee. Especially with thy temper as hot as it is.” She pauses, then unfolds her arms. “But I knowe what thou art thinking.”

“Do tell,” Therion drawls.

“Thou art the only one of us who hath never had a family,” she says. “I was orphaned at a young age, but even I hath my master. Thou cannot tellen him I spake of this to thee, but he is the closest thing to a father I hath ever had. By all rights, he hath raised me as his own.” She glances at Ophilia. “And thou art jealous.”

“What?” Therion scoffs. For half a moment he'd thought H'aanit really could see right through him, but the corners of his eyes turn up in a sardonic smile as she answers. “You're out of your mind. Who would _want_ to be hurt like that?” he asks, tilting his head toward Ophilia.

“‘Tis not the pain thou art envious of,” H'aanit says, shrugging. “But I hath incensed thee. My apologies.”

She's right to apologize, he thinks as they enter the cavern where Lianna awaits. Of all the things he's feeling, jealousy is the last thing that could possibly be on the list. He's been in Ophilia's circumstances before, after all. He knows intimately how miserable it is to be betrayed by someone he holds dear.

There's no way _anyone_ could be jealous of that.

The cave that the so-called Savior and his devotees have made their base of operations is a natural labyrinth, and every time the group comes to a dead end Therion hears Ophilia's breath catch in her throat, sees her slump her shoulders for just a moment before standing up straighter than before, squaring herself and taking the lead back down a different path. She's never been a weak-willed person, but the deeply personal connection she has to the woman they're pursuing brings out a whole new level of strength from within her. If he weren't so busy trying to keep up with her, he'd find it interesting: he gave up immediately, as soon as the pain of being broken against the ground of the Cliftlands subsided enough for his head to work. And Ophilia only tries harder every time something goes wrong - the exact opposite of him.

So when Lianna refuses to stop the ritual at first, even after Mattias reveals the lackeys have brought with him will die if she continues, he's not surprised to see Ophilia - timid, graceful Ophilia - standing tall and rigid and furious as she demands Mattias stop what he's doing. And he's not surprised that she's the first to reach for her weapon when he refuses, even before Lianna collapses to her knees in regret as she remembers the promise she once made to her father.

The first strike belongs to her, a sharp burst of light blooming brightly in front of Mattias's eyes, so intense it scorches his hair. H'aanit and Linde swoop in while he's momentarily blinded, grappling him to the floor, while Primrose carefully leads Lianna away from the Sacred Flame. Mattias manages to kick Linde away from him, scrambling to his feet, only to have to duck suddenly to avoid what would surely have been a fatal blow from Olberic. But Mattias is nimble, deftly dropping the swordsman with a swift strike to the shins and gesturing ominously to Cyrus, his connection with Galdera, tenuous as it is, allowing him to cast dark magic quicker than Cyrus can finish his incantation. The scholar hits the floor hard, Alfyn rushes over to haul him back onto his feet, and Therion looks back over to Mattias just in time to see him catch Tressa's spear with a candelabra, of all things, shifting it in his arms with just enough force to send her weapon flying.

It's eight against one, but Mattias is doing a splendid job of making fools of all of them.

“Therion,” Ophilia says quietly. “I trust you, okay?” With that cryptic sentence, she fires off another spell, drawing Mattias's attention and ire. Therion runs to Olberic's side, helps him stand, and draws his sword.

“You take the left, I'll take the right.”

“If you take the right, he may hurt you,” Olberic frowns. “I should be the one to…”

Therion shakes his head. “He's slower than me. I have this in the bag.” He glances over at Ophilia. “Besides…she'll keep him busy.” She's who he really wants to kill, after all, for foiling his plans.

Olberic nods. “All right. May your blade strike true, Therion.”

Therion doesn't bother wishing him luck in return. He doesn’t need it.

Using the shadows as cover, Therion circles around to Mattias's right, wincing as he sees Ophilia take the brunt of a magical assault. A mottled bruise twists around her throat, seemingly appearing out of nowhere, and her body is lifted off the ground. Mattias sneers. “You see how futile it is to resist me?” he hisses. “Where is your Aelfric to save you now?”

“I…” Ophilia gasps.

“She has something better,” Therion replies, leaping forward.

“What?!” Mattias lowers his hand, dropping Ophilia in a heap on the floor, turning to focus on Therion.

Perfect.

He doesn't even manage to get another word in before Olberic cleaves his side open. There's a disgusting wet splat as he hits the ground, and he writhes in agony, moaning in pain as the puddle of blood underneath him grows with each passing second.

Therion turns to Ophilia, but Alfyn's already there, propping her up on his shoulder and gently tracing the bruises on her neck with his fingertips, a worried frown on his face. Olberic sighs, watching Mattias twitch on the ground with an inscrutable expression, until the man who called himself a Savior stops moving entirely. “It is over,” he sighs. “Alfyn, how is Ophilia?”

“Hard to say. Those spells of his were nasty, but…shucks, maybe you'd be better off healin’ yourself,” he mutters. “I've never seen wounds like this.”

Ophilia puts a hand on her throat, mouthing the words to a prayer, and Therion realizes what he'd thought were bruises are more akin to a _rot,_ twisting down her torso underneath her robes. He stands there, not quite sure what to do, frozen like a deer in the torchlight until he sees the marks on her skin begin to fade. It's only then that his body allows itself to move, and the first thing he does is kneel by Mattias's body, rifling through what few possessions he kept on his person.

Nothing worth keeping, except his coinpurse.

He hears Lianna and Ophilia speak haltingly to each other, the awkwardness of the situation too much for even him to eavesdrop on. H'aanit approaches and kneels next to him, tucking a stray tuft of hair behind her ear. “Thou seemest to have misseth thy chance.”

“To what?”

“Didst thou not wanten to speaken with her? ‘Twas plain as day.” She nudges his shoulder. “She would ben glad to hear thou weren concerned.”

“She has more important people to talk to than me,” Therion says, shrugging.

“Mayhap,” agrees H'aanit. She gives Mattias's corpse a dour look. “‘Tis good we came to Wispermill. The world ill needeth a savior such as this.”

“You can say that again.” Therion stands, dusting off his mantle. “Are we ready to get out of here? Spending all day in a cave with a dead guy in it isn't exactly my idea of a good time. And I don’t want to wait for them to wake up - Alfyn, what the hell are you doing?”

“I’m makin’ sure they’re alive,” he responds, as though the question Therion has just asked is the stupidest one he's ever heard. “These people are innocent in all this.”

“Oh, sure, and that’s why they tricked and jailed two _actually_ innocent women,” Therion snaps.

“Aww,” croons Tressa.

“Oh, sorry. I meant one innocent woman and the kid she was babysitting.”

“Hey!”

Ophilia laughs, the first time she's done so since Goldshore. “If anything, Tressa was babysitting me…she kept me from panicking in that cell.”

“No way,” Tressa says, shaking her head. “I couldn't have kept my calm without you, either!”

“Fili,” Lianna says, exhaustion seeping into her voice. Ophilia gathers her sister into her arms and holds her close. “No wonder you're handling this so much better than I am. You've found such a wonderful family.”

Ophilia strokes Lianna’s hair. “Yes, I have. But before them…and after we all part ways…I have a wonderful family to return to, as well.”

Something in Therion's stomach sinks, and he feels two catlike sets of eyes on him.

Maybe H'aanit was right, after all.

As the travelers lead Lianna and the villagers back to Wispermill, Primrose turns to Therion. “Are you sure you're okay with staying with us while we take care of things in Stilsnow? You've got to make your report to that family that hired you, right?”

Therion shrugs. “If it were that important, they'd have sent a summons, or done something equally insufferable.”

“But what about your arm?”

“Just do what I do and let Alfyn worry about that.”

Primrose stares at him, brows furrowed, before giving him a sly grin. “I guess even loners like you and me can't avoid making attachments here and there.”

Therion rolls his eyes. “Whatever. You guys aren't my family.”

“I never said we were,” she responds, a playful sparkle in her eyes as he turns to glare at her. “But, you know…it's been a long time since I…well.” She laughs hollowly. “I may not have a family anymore, but…it felt an awful lot like this, when I did.”

Therion makes a noncommittal noise, refusing to acknowledge her.

Just a few months ago, he was the kind of person who'd have packed up and left for Bolderfall as soon as the dragonstone escaped his grasp, but here he is, taking the scenic route, helping out people whose company he’s starting to sincerely enjoy, doing everything he promised himself he would never do after Darius broke his body and his heart.

He hopes they find more excuses to stop between here and Ravus Manor. After all, once it's all over, he has nobody to go home to.

Strange, how something he'd once taken such comfort in seems so terrifying now.


End file.
